Chương 7
That shut me up.
He sighed.
“Also my wife threatened to break my other leg if I didn't.”
“That sounds more plausible.”
“There she is.”
I rubbed my thumb against the pocket where his insignia rested.
“You should have told me.”
“So should you.”
“About what?”
“The canceled flight.”
I looked away.
He waited.
“That was different.”
“Of course it was.”
“I didn't want anyone to think I couldn't go back.”
“Neither did I.”
My gaze returned to his.
For the first time, I saw the symmetry and hated it.
We had spent months protecting each other with lies that looked polite from the outside.
His Thursdays had been proof of life for me.
My jokes had been proof of resilience for him.
Neither of us had asked the question that mattered because we were afraid the answer would make our survival more complicated.
The driver opened the SUV door again.
This time Marcus accepted the invitation.
He maneuvered himself toward the seat with obvious irritation.
I reached for his elbow.
He gave me a warning look.
“Doctor face.”
“Shut up.”
He let me help anyway.
Once he was inside, he shifted the brace and grimaced.
“Coffee.”
“You're medically terrible.”
“Coffee.”
“Fine.”
I walked around to the other side and climbed in.
The driver looked at me through the mirror.
“Ma'am, where to?”
Marcus answered before I could.
“Somewhere that doesn't serve coffee from an industrial pump.”
“That eliminates most of the base, Senior.”
“See the challenge.”
We ended up at a small place just outside the main gate where the tables wobbled and the pastries were displayed under glass as though they were evidence.
Marcus ordered black coffee.
I ordered tea.
He looked betrayed.
“You agreed to coffee.”
“I agreed to go for coffee.”
“Legal trickery.”
“Read before signing.”
He carried nothing, so I carried both drinks.
At the table, he took the lid off his cup and stared at the steam.
I wrapped both hands around mine.
Neither of us spoke for a while.
A college student at the next table was trying to explain calculus over a video call.
An old man near the window tore a blueberry muffin into perfectly equal pieces before eating them.
The ordinary noise of the place helped.
Marcus finally looked at my sleeve.
“Can I ask you something?”
“You usually do without permission.”
“Did it hurt?”
I knew what he meant.
“Yes.”
“How bad?”
“Very.”
He looked into his coffee.
“I remember you saying four words.”
My fingers stopped around the cup.
“What words?”
He lifted his eyes.
“I hold the line.”
The room seemed to shift.
I had never told anyone about that.
Not Mercer.
Not the therapist.
Not even myself in any deliberate way.
“What?”
“You kept saying it.”
“How many times?”
“I don't know.”
I stared at him.
He rubbed the side of the paper cup.
“I thought maybe it was something your unit used.”
“No.”
“Something from training?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
I could hear the helicopter again.
Not the rotors this time.
My own breathing.
The metal shrieking.
Marcus groaning beneath me.
Blood running inside my glove.
A voice telling me to strap in.
My left arm failing.
I had said the words because there had been nothing else left.
“I don't know,” I said.
Marcus watched me carefully.
“I think I was talking to myself.”
“Did it work?”
I looked at the scars disappearing beneath my sleeve.
“For thirty-seven minutes.”
He nodded.
Then he reached across the table and tapped one finger against my pocket.
“Maybe it's time you stop holding it alone.”
I looked at Marcus’s finger resting against the pocket and wanted to make a joke.
Nothing came.
He withdrew his hand before the gesture could become sentimental.
That was one of the things I liked about him.
He could recognize the exact moment a conversation became dangerous and usually ruined it on purpose.
This time he let the silence stay.
The college student at the next table said something about derivatives, swore quietly, and erased half a page of work.
The old man by the window finished his muffin and folded the paper wrapper into a small square.
Outside, traffic moved past the coffee shop in ordinary bursts.
I stared into my tea.
“There’s a problem with what you’re suggesting.”
Marcus lifted his cup.
“Several, probably.”
“I’m a doctor.”
“That’s been established.”
“I’m supposed to know how this works.”
“You do know.”
“Knowing isn’t the same as doing.”
“No argument there.”
I looked at him.
He waited.
“I’ve spent years telling people that trauma isn’t weakness.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve told Marines that panic is a nervous system response.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve explained avoidance cycles, sleep disruption, triggers, exposure therapy, all of it.”
Marcus took a drink.
“And?”
“And apparently I’m an enormous hypocrite.”
He considered that.
“Maybe.”
I stared at him.
“That was fast.”
“You asked.”
“I was expecting reassurance.”
“You should've ordered that at the counter.”
Despite everything, I laughed.
The laugh lasted only a second, but it loosened something in my chest.
Marcus leaned back carefully.
“I don’t think you’re a hypocrite.”
“You just said maybe.”
“I changed my mind.”
“That quickly?”
“I’m flexible.”
“You’re wearing a rigid brace.”
“That feels personal.”
I wrapped my hand around the warm paper cup.
“What I mean is, I knew exactly what I was doing when I canceled that flight.”
“Sure.”
“I knew why.”
“Probably.”
“I just didn’t want the explanation attached to my name.”
“There it is.”
I frowned.
“There what is?”
“The actual problem.”
He glanced toward the front counter.
A barista was trying to rescue a stack of cups that had begun leaning dangerously beside the espresso machine.
“No one wants a diagnosis to become their whole biography.”
I studied him.
“That sounded suspiciously insightful.”
“My wife said it.”
“Of course she did.”
“She says most of my best things first.”
“What does she say about the protein shakes?”
“That marriage requires compromise.”
“Meaning?”
May you like
“I drink them in the garage.”
That made me laugh again.
