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RORY WHEELED HER CHAIR NEXT TO A SNARLING GIRL, WATCHING HER scrape a red crayon across the page.
"What are you doing?" Rory asked.
The girl looked up, her purple-beaded braids clinking together. Scowling, she said, "It's not like how I imagined it."
"The drawing? How'd you imagine it?"
"Like—like a princess from a castle and a dragon!"
Rory tilted her head, getting a better angle of the paper. A scrawl of red lines clouded over what might have been a stick-figured girl and a fire-breathing dragon.
"I think it looks exactly like a princess from a castle and a dragon."
"But I hate the way the princess looks," the girl seethed.
Rory almost laughed at the fire in her, the way she dug the tip of her red crayon so hard into the paper it chipped into wax flakes.
Seriously, she said, "Well, I'm a princess so that makes me qualified to say I think your princess looks pretty."
The girl's head snapped up.
Suspiciously, she asked, "You're a princess?"
"That's right."
"Then where's your crown? Or your ballgown? Where's your castle?"
"You got me there," Rory said, frowning. "Well, I got into an accident, so . . ."
She motioned to the wheelchair, and her leg in the stiff cast.
The girl shook her head. "You're lying. A princess would choose pink for her cast."
"Doc's gonna replace this one tomorrow."
"So you are a princess," said the girl, and this time her eyes lit up. "My name is Dhonielle. Will you bring me back to your castle when you get better?"
"Of course," Rory said easily.
Dhonielle bit her lip. "Do you mind moving right there?"
Rory raised a brow, but she wheeled her chair towards the spot the girl had pointed.
"How come—"
Excitedly, Dhonielle said, "And can you lift your arms like you're holding a sword? I want to draw you."
Rory's chest swelled. "You're going to draw me? Fighting a dragon?"
Dhonielle's brown skin shone, her cheeks dimpled with a grin. "Yes!" she said. "It's going to be a really good fight. You and the dragon are going to have an epic battle."
"How do I win? Do I stab the dragon in the heart, really heroically?"
Dhonielle didn't even look up as her hand moved furiously across the page, sketching out the imaginary fight.
"No, you're going to get eaten," she said. "Don't worry, though. Once the dragon swallows you and you're inside his stomach, it'll be a painless death."
Rory's eyes widened. Before she could figure out a way to respond to that, a figure appeared at the door.
White coat. A halo of gold-brown curls. A full, lush mouth.
"Dhonielle," Paris said. "Are you making Miss Preston your art model?"
The girl covered the paper with both hands. "No?"
"What did we say about asking people to be still for your artwork?" Paris leaned against the doorway, her eyes drifting over Rory.
"We said we can't do that anymore?"
"That's right," Paris said. "You have to use an inanimate object or a picture, Donny."
Dhonielle sighed. "Fine, Paris. But what if Rory could just stay for a few more—"
Paris only raised a single eyebrow, and Dhonielle relented.
"Come on, Miss Preston," she said to Rory. "Let's get your vitals checked."
Rory waved goodbye to Dhonielle, rolling herself out of Room 302. Paris was walking too fast to catch up, and Rory had the feeling it was on purpose.
Her chest stung, as though she had been pricked.
Outwardly, she said, "Hey, Doc! Wait up!"
Paris came to a stop, as though she hadn't expected it.
Rory finished catching up and said, "So the kids can call you Paris but I can't?"
"I love these kids more than I love anything else in the world," Paris snapped. "The same cannot be said about you."
Rory shouldn't have winced, but she did.
I deserved that one.
"How come you didn't let me model for Dhonielle?" she asked instead. "I didn't mind being inspiration for art."
Paris rolled her eyes, leading her into an X-Ray room.
"The last time Dhonielle asked someone to model for her, the poor nurse ended up having to be completely still for four hours."
"Why didn't she say something?"
"Next time, you try telling Dhonielle what to do." But there was a faint smile on Paris's mouth. "That kid will be a director one day, I tell you."
Rory couldn't help but wonder at that. The love in her tone, so obvious.
It was clear she cared about these kids, and Rory couldn't help envying her—the devotion Paris had.
The last time they had spoken—five years ago—their conversation had begun with an argument. That had escalated into Paris moaning Rory's name.
But it had ended with a fight, and that fight . . . it had ended their friendship.
Friendship. It seemed like too . . . tame of a word.
For the nights they had spent on the rooftop of the Academy. For the countless whispers and kisses they had shared, avoiding the watchful eye of the Headmistress. For the time they had spent in the middle of the night, not having sex in the dorm rooms, but sneaking into the kitchen and making a disastrous mess of cake.
All of that time, all of those memories . . . did Paris still remember?
After the way their last conversation had went, maybe—maybe she didn't care anymore.
"Take off your clothes," Paris said.
Rory's head jerked up.
Paris was scowling at her. "No, not in that way, you moron. Change into this."
She was holding up a pale blue hospital gown.
"I love it when you call me such beautiful nicknames," Rory said. "It turns me on."
A blush spread over Paris's cheeks. "Just take the gown!"
Rory took the gown, and their fingers brushed.
It was the first time they had touched in five years.
A spark of electricity zapped along Rory's fingertips, lighting up her blood and warming her veins. Jesus.
But before she could say anything, before she could ask, Did you feel that, too? Paris was ushering her into the X-Ray room and ordering her to lay down.
"Well, all you had to do was ask," Rory said, letting a cocky smirk curve her lips.
A deep blush simmered over Paris's face. As though she was remembering all the times that they had—
"I need you to be completely motionless for the next two and a half minutes," Paris interrupted, like she knew what Rory was thinking. "So will you please just . . . shut up?"
"I'm sure I can manage," Rory said. "It would help if you gave me something in return, though."
"Like what?" Paris barked.
"A kiss," Rory said innocently. "Just a small, featherlight, quick kiss on the cheek is all I'm asking for—"
Paris scowled and slammed the door shut, waving at her from behind the glass.
And even though the middle finger she raised wasn't exactly a kiss, Rory still couldn't help grinning.
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I kind of love Rory, actually.
From the moon and back,
Sarai