Once she was done, he pulled her suitcase to the
porch steps, then carried it across the now-slushy ground
to her car, heaving it into her trunk once she opened it.
She faced him. “John…”
“Drive carefully. It can be slippery when it’s melting
like this.”
“Why won’t you listen to me?” she asked, with what
sounded like despair.
If she’d just go. Not insist on rehashing why he had
been so foolish as to believe for a second they could
have a future.
Stolidly he said, “I listened.”
“Then you didn’t hear. I came because I was falling in
love with you, too. I gave myself to you because I was.”
Yes. That’s why he’d believed what he had.
“If…if this was the life you loved, the life you’d
chosen, then I would give serious thought to how I
could combine mine with yours. But we both know it
isn’t. You have to be intellectually restless…”
Now, he didn’t want to hear.
“We both know you’re temperamentally unsuited to
a service job…”
“Thanks for noticing that I’m surly.”
“I feel like I’m talking to one of my students!” she
said with exasperation.
Seeing her start to turn away, he panicked. “I’m
dealing with my PTSD. In my own way.”
He’d never let himself say, or even think, those words
before: my PTSD. I am suffering from posttraumatic
stress. He didn’t stop to consider what it meant that he
was saying them now.
Fiona turned back. “Your way is to hide out.”
“It’s healing naturally. With hard physical work,
limited noise and stress. The old-fashioned way.”
“Is it working?”
“I’m better.”
“But still suffering flashbacks and nightmares. Still
unable to tell anyone about the traumatic events.”
“How do you know I haven’t told other people?”
She refused to play his game, her eyes asking for
more than he could give. “Have you?”
John couldn’t lie. He stood there, mute.
“I need to go,” she whispered, and threw herself into
the car. Not waiting to warm it up, she backed out as
fast as the engine caught. John had to take a couple of
quick steps back.
He was left with a last snapshot of her face, wet
with tears.
FIONA WAS READY to give up. She’d been happier than
she had ever been in her life when she was with John,
and sadder and lonelier, too. If he couldn’t even admit
that he had a serious problem or that he was shutting
her out, she didn’t know what else she could do.
Except get over him.
She went to her mother’s for dinner two days after
getting back, and the first thing she said was, “I ruined
Thanksgiving, didn’t I? I’m so sorry, Mom! I really,
truly, am glad you’ve found Barry.”
Her mother laughed and hugged her. “You didn’t
ruin Thanksgiving! Barry liked you, and he’s been apologizing ever since for being so stiff you probably thought he was carved out of wood.”
“Really?”
As slim as Fiona, with stylishly cut hair that was
being defiantly allowed to go gray, her mother laughed
again. “Really.”
“Can we give it another try?”
“Of course we can!” Her mother’s dark eyes softened. “How was your trip?”
She’d intended to lie, say, “It was great!” But this
was her mom, and when Fiona opened her mouth,
nothing at all came out. Her mouth worked, and the next
thing she knew tears were running down her face.
Her mother took her in her arms and let her cry, just as
she had when the first boy who’d ever asked Fiona out had
stood her up. This time, because she was an adult—her
heart and not just her pride had been wounded—the tears
couldn’t wash away her misery, and her mother’s comforting arms didn’t convince her that all would be well.
But she did feel marginally better when she finally
drew back. “Oh, no, I can imagine what I look like!”
she said, and fled to the bathroom.
Face washed, she sat with her mother on the couch
and told her about John, his pride, his silences and the