“Yeah sure, go ahead.”
“You said you were in an accident.” He spoke softly, nodding at me. “What happened?”
I closed my eyes and had to ignore the knee-jerk reaction to tell him to go fuck himself. It’d been a long, long time since I told anyone about what happened that night, and a large part of me never wanted to talk about it again. I’d talked about it enough over the years—with police first, then my family, then therapists, so many therapists. The therapy helped get me over that initial hump, and taught me how to manage the trauma, but it didn’t heal my scars. Those would always linger.
“I was dating this guy, an older boy named Jim. He was cute, you know, but a total dumb jock.” I sucked in a breath and opened my eyes again, and the story came pouring out.
I told him the whole thing: drunk driving, accident in the field, the glass that sliced into my uterus, causing scar tissue, a total freak thing. There’d been a lot of blood, and I thought I was dying, but no, I didn’t die, only my future children, my future self as a mother. That died, and I’d never get it back. I gave him as much detail as I could stomach, talked about the way Jim tried to brace me back against the seat, the noise he made, the words he said that I couldn’t remember—then afterward, the police, the pity, the way I shut myself off and refused to talk about it anymore.
He listened quietly, paying close attention, and by the time I finished, he reached out and touched my hand, taking it and squeezing my fingers. That small gesture suddenly made it feel as if it was worth it, and I felt like a burden lifted off my chest, not entirely, but a little bit, enough to make me feel lighter. The full weight of the accident would never go away, I knew that, but losing a little bit helped.
“That must have been hard,” he said. “I can’t even imagine.”
“I got past it.” I looked away, but didn’t let go of his hand. “I can’t have kids now though. I’ve seen a few doctors since and they all say the same thing. Scar tissue in the worst place imaginable, eggs will never attach, that sort of stuff.” I laughed bitterly. “Maybe that’s why I became a nurse.”
“I think I understand that,” he said. “My father was abusive. He used to beat my mother so bad it’d leave her bleeding and bruised. Nobody said anything, of course, because he was careful and he was smart. But I saw what he did, I grew up watching the things he did, grew up with him turning his anger toward me sometimes. I think that’s why I became a doctor, to help people, to make up for all the hurt my father inflicted.”
I blinked, staring at him. I knew his father was a bastard—but I didn’t realize he’d been physically abusive. I should’ve realized, or at least I should’ve guessed. “God, Dean. I’m so sorry.”
He waved it off. “It’s okay. I mean, it’s not, but it’s the past, and it made me who I am today, I guess.”
“Never helps, hearing someone say sorry.”
“No, but it means they care enough to say it, at least.”
I smiled at him and laughed. “Look at us. Battered and bruised.”
“I don’t think of myself that way, and I don’t think you are, either.” He paused, and pulled my hand toward him. He kissed my fingers and let them linger there. “I think you’re stronger because of what happened to you. Not broken, but better. You can let it destroy you, or you can take control of it.”
“I don’t know if I believe in that.”
“What do you believe in then?”
I shook my head. “Coming to grips with it, maybe. Accepting that it happened. But I don’t think I’ll ever be able to control it.”
He nodded. “I think everyone deals with it differently.”
“You’re right about that.” I laughed and chewed on my cheek for a second. “This got really heavy.”
“I know, but I’m glad it did.”
“Yeah? You’re not freaked out?”
“Not at all. I want to know you, Fiona. I want to understand you.”
“Do you think you understand now?”
“I think I have more context, at least, and you do too.”
I nodded and let out a breath. I gently pulled my hand away and suddenly, something clicked for me. I turned halfway back toward the stacks of documents, a frown on my face, sitting on the edge of the chair.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Sorry, there’s just this pattern that’s bugging me. Something you said made me think about it again.”
He leaned back and watched me, and I stared at the papers, trying to make sense of what my brain was telling me. I’d noticed the numbers before, how they fit into this specific framework that didn’t really add up for me, and it still didn’t, but something was telling me an important detail was buried inside of those pages. I shook my head and turned back to him.