Murray Hill || A Superhuman Tale - 1

Chapter Six

When Tommy reached the hospital at 5:30 the next morning, Rhonda felt some indefinable weight lighten within her. There was no reason why. She'd never doubted he would come. But after midnight, work had slowed, and she was alone with her thoughts. By herself, she worried. With her man there, she had something to which to anchor herself.

She'd decided during the night that she was going to accept Tommy, no matter how he was. Of course, part of her still hoped his strange reaction to the previous day's conversation was a subtle attempt to lure her into a gargantuan practical joke, some byzantine long-con only someone like Tommy could contrive.

It never hurts to overestimate a man's ability to be a jackass, she reasoned.

It was quiet when they left the ER hand-in-hand at 20 minutes till. The city by then seemed to have exhausted itself of car accidents, drive-by shootings, slips-and-falls, and cat-calling nurses. Or perhaps it was just mustering its strength for another day.

Rhonda smacked her lips in mock exhaustion. She usually didn't feel groggy until 7:30 or so. Tommy, who never seemed tired, was his usual quiet self in the morning.

As if by some mutual homing instinct, they made silently for Romero's, their favorite greasy spoon. Once there, they said their hellos to staff and regulars before occupying their favorite booth.

What followed was a ritual so set as if passed down by some ancient writ. Tommy ordered her a cup of tea and himself a cherry Coke; Rhonda stretched, kicked off her shoes (first the left, then the right), and raised her feet to Tommy's lap; Tommy, who already had unfolded a menu on the table in front of him, began to rub her tired dogs.

It was the same choreographed moves every morning they frequented Romero's, after which Rhonda ordered the Colorado omelet with a side of bacon. Tommy had that and the pecan pancakes.

While they waited for their order, she talked about her shift, about the slips and the falls, the sprains and strains, and the other trivialities. And she told him about the detectives who'd come by.

"That was the same pair I met over at Lee's," he said.

"I thought to ask them about that. I've known Mueller for ages—I used to have a crush on his old partner," she added, hoping to get a rise out of him.

"Small world. I have a crush on his new partner."

She voiced a sharp peep and looked for something to throw, an impulse that only increased when his laughter transmogrified from his normal obnoxious snorting into his even louder I-just-got-one-up-on-you cackle. Ultimately, though, she relented and sat in sullen, you're-never-going-to-have-sex-again silence. If she started throwing saltshakers or cutlery in Romero's, there might be repercussions involving their dining privileges, an outcome she didn't wish to risk.

For now, she was cornered.

Throughout, he'd continued to massage her feet, but when their food arrived, her wrath vanished, and she retrieved her feet and slipped them back in her shoes. She liked having both feet firmly on the ground when she ate. One never knows when one might need to lunge for that last pork chop, was her philosophy.

They dined in contented silence, one sometimes reaching over to touch the other's hand, Rhonda's innocent dalliance with Detective Gellner and Tommy's base treachery with Detective Thomas long forgotten. It was good.

After polishing off the last bit of toast, she slid her plate to the side, happy to be sitting for a few silent moments. Tommy always finished before her. The boy could put away the vittles, she'd often noted, conscious of the fact that she was no innocent with a knife and fork.

After those few moments, she felt Tommy squeeze her hand and looked up to meet his eyes.

"I'm one of them," he said softly.

To her surprise, a wave of relief swept over her, albeit one interspersed with specters of doubts and fears yet to come.

"I'm sorry I kept that from you," he continued in a calm and even voice. "I've wanted to tell you so many times, but ...."

She never knew whether he'd had anything scripted to say, but if he had, it all fell apart.

Of a sudden, her man's eyes welled with tears, and he stopped speaking, as if he'd lost his breath. Finally, he spoke in a whisper so choked with emotion that she barely could discern it, "... please don't leave me."

Nothing in her experience with him had prepared her for his reaction. Her beloved sat across from her trembling, tears rained freely down his face, and she could see the muscles in his throat and jaw working spasmodically, as if to hold something in, or to let it out. She knew he was too choked with emotion to speak further.

Her heart broke, and she did the only thing she knew to do.

She snorted aloud—Rhonda had never learned how to coddle people, least of all him—and adopted her most matter-of-fact tone. "Oh, you should be so lucky. I will be like an albatross around your neck until the day you die."

She felt his trembling lessen somewhat.

"And what was that crap the other day? 'The only gift I have is my gift for loving you,'" she said in the thick, goofy, mocking drawl that she reserved for repeating back to him something stupid that he'd said. "Does that hokey bullshit work on any of your women?"

A short bark of laughter escaped him, followed by a few panting breaths, and his trembling nearly stopped.

Rhonda got to her feet and crossed to his side of the booth. Her man was near the aisle, so she placed one bent knee atop his thigh and leaned her body against his, cradling his head. She began to kiss his forehead and with one hand to caress his neck and shoulders.

"I guess I've broken your spirit enough for one day," she whispered.

"I'll say."

"Are we going to have any more talk of people leaving one another?"

"No," he said, his voice suddenly stronger.

"Are we going to have any more secrets?"

"No."

"Good."

She reached down, took up some napkins, and began dabbing his tears away. Glancing about, it seemed no one had noticed their emotional moment. By the time she finished grooming him a few minutes later, he looked his usual calm and confident self. It was one of the things she admired most about her man, but having seen him in such an emotional state thought no less of him. Never had he exhibited such overpowering emotions. It was obvious the episode had frightened him deeply, even more than it had her. Despite her outward poise, she too was trembling ever so slightly.

Looking down after one last kiss on his forehead, she noticed he was wearing the jeans and work shirt from the evening before. Something occurred to her. Placing a single finger above the top button of the shirt, she pulled out the front a fraction and peered down.

"If I go to Detective Thomas' apartment, will I find that shitty t-shirt under her bed?"

Tommy paused, as if concocting a story. "I can't discount the possibility," he said at last.

"Well, as long as that's where it stays." She stepped aside and tousled his gorgeous hair. "Go pay the bill, Casanova. I'm gonna pee."

A few minutes later, they were walking home. Tommy suggested they not discuss his "Gifts" until later. She needed sleep, and as chance would have it, they'd planned the next two weeks off. Time enough to answer any question she might have then.

Rhonda happily agreed. There'd been far too much mental and emotional heavy lifting in her life since she'd last slept. When they got home, they skipped their usual ritual and dove straight into bed and off to sleep.