Broken Wings (A Romantic Suspense)(14)

“You alright?”

“No,” I tell him, knowing it’s useless to lie.

He waits. He knows I’ll fill the silence sooner or later.

“Would you like me to leave?”

“Jack was at the wedding.”

“How’s that?”

I sigh. “He must have crashed it. I know Richard insisted to Mom that he wasn’t invited. We talked at the reception.”

Fitzgerald nods but says nothing.

I draw my knees up, lean on my arms, and look out the window. I can see his reflection, blurred.

“He tried to apologize to me.”

“What’d you do?”

My voice cracks. “I was really mean.”

“Why?”

I bite my lip and wince. I still do that from time time, forgetting myself. My face starts to itch. I close my eye and try to let it fade into the background before it turns into an urge to peel my skin off and rake my bones with my nails.

Deep breaths.

“He hurt me.”

“He did.”

It’s halfway between a statement and a question. He has this way of asking me questions without ever challenging me. It annoys me sometimes, like right now. I sneer and curl up a little more.

“I woke up and everything was ruined, and he was gone without a word. He didn’t even leave me a note. When I texted him it bounced back, when I send emails they didn’t go through, when I called him his number was disconnected. I sent letters and got no answer.”

He knows all this. I don’t know why I’m telling him. Maybe I’m telling myself.

“You’re very angry with him.”

“Would you be?”

“Yes.”

“They never told me it was his fault, but he was driving. One-car accidents don’t just happen.”

“You don’t remember what happened.”

“No. The last thing I remember is leaving the diner with Dad and Jack and then I woke up in the hospital.” I look at my hand. “Like this, and they were all gone.”

I’ve cried over this so many times, I don’t think I have any tears left. I down half of my drink and swirl it around my dry mouth before I let it soak into my burning throat. My eye starts to burn. Deep breaths.

“You’re conflicted. If you weren’t you wouldn’t be telling me this.”

“What are you, my therapist?”

“Maybe.”

I snort. I tried therapists. Six of them. They all had something different for me. Pills. Meditation. Primal screaming. It was all a joke. I just went through the motions because Mom made me. The pills made me janky, and what am I supposed to do, meditate my face back? If I scream loud enough, will my hand work again?

My guitar sits on its stand in the corner. Sometimes I set it on my lap and try to curl my useless claw around the fret board, but I can’t even hold on to it. It’s been so long I fear I’ve forgotten how to play.

I was good. I took lessons from when I was six. I could play and and I could sing. Mom was always behind me, urging me on, signing me up for double lessons, singing classes, the works.

When I turned fifteen she hired me a personal trainer.

That just pops into my head. It’s true, of course, but I haven’t thought about it in years. He picked me up from school three days a week and drove me to a gym; after an hour of running and spinning Mom would pick me up and take me home.

I just wanted to play soccer but she said that wouldn’t work.

All for nothing. Look at me now.

“What do you think he wants?” Fitzgerald asks.

I shrug. “I don’t know.”

Silence. He sits in the chair and waits, watching me. I sigh.

“He says he wants to make amends. He apologized to me.”

“Alright then.”

I look up, annoyed. “Alright then, what? Ten years go by and he just says sorry and that’s it?”

“Could be. Why not?”

“What? Because… I mean… He can’t!”

“What else did he say?”

“His dad sent him to boarding school and wouldn’t let him say goodbye. That doesn’t matter, he was in college and in the Army for years. He could have contacted me then. It’s not like his father controls every little thing he does.”

Fitzgerald nods.

“Of course, I sort of stopped sending messages, and I didn’t…”

I trail off.

Yeah.

“Sounds complicated.”

“Yeah, it’s complicated.”

I finish off my drink.

“Another?”

“No, thanks.”

“Give a call if you want to talk some more.”

He stands, and I take in a deep breath.

“What do you think I should do if he tries again?”

Fitzgerald shrugs. “I think you can do whatever you want.”

After he leaves I lock my door and draw a bath. While I was in the rehab hospital, Mom had a big whirlpool tub installed in my bathroom. As it fills up with steaming water and starts to bubble, I strip and sit on the edge, shivering, then slip into it.

In the water the ache in my knee slowly melts away, and I can relax, really relax.

The tub has another, ah, useful feature. If I angle myself just right…