“Enough?” I lift my eyebrows in question.
“Yes,” she says. “That’s true enough, but I don’t think it’s the reason your grief and regret cling to your words when you speak of her.”
She’s right.
Of course she is.
But—
“It’s not pleasant, cookie.”
Her eyes gentle. “It wouldn’t be your deepest darkest secret if it was.”
She’s right again.
Of course she is.
“My mom wasn’t abusive, but she took up a lot of emotional energy, and one night just after I graduated college, I wanted to just be a twenty-two-year-old, you know? I wanted to drink with my friends and not think about anything doctor related for one night. No emails to her care team or visits to pharmacies, no phone calls to the insurance company. Just me and my friends and the hot girls who wanted to grind on me in the club.”
Marie smiles. “You wanted to be free for a night.”
“Yeah,” I say. “And I did all the prep work—I got her set up with food and a night nurse, spent time with her that afternoon because she always said I was too busy for her.” I feel my throat grow tight again and pause to breathe. Marie doesn’t push, just gives me the time to find the next words. “She called, and I stepped outside to answer—she didn’t like the nurse, said she was mean. I spent some time mediating that and went back inside.” A deep breath. “But she called again, and it was the same shit. So, when she called a third time and a fourth and”—my eyes burn—“a tenth, I didn’t pick up the calls. I sent them to voicemail, ordered another drink, and I had my night.”
Marie’s fingers are wrapped tightly around mine, and she seems to be barely breathing.
I’m doing the same.
Because ripping this out of me is taking all the air in my lungs, all the strength in my body.
“I don’t remember the last thing I said to her—I was too drunk. But the words were sharp and impatient and…I didn’t fucking pick up the phone.”
She slips her hand free from mine, but before I can mourn the loss of contact, she’s wrapping her arms around me and hugging me tight. “I’m so sorry, honey.”
“It’s my fault. I should have done more, should have been more patient, should?—”
“You were a kid.” A squeeze of her arms. “You were put in an untenable situation and did the best you could.”
I touch her cheek. “So my therapist says.” My mouth curves up. “You asked my deepest darkest secret, and that’s it, cookie. I have regrets, big ones that seem to swell up and try to take over. But I’ve made good things happen out of those regrets and we’re not stopping with clots. We’re putting more research into women’s health, because it’s chronically underfunded and studies are few and far between. That’s the penance I need to pay.”
“But—”
“For myself,” I tell her. “To soothe those regrets. To fulfill the promise I made when I found her the next morning, already gone. I won’t sit in guilt, won’t allow it to make me impotent. I’ll do something about it, and I’ll make the world better for women like her.”
“That’s beautiful.”
“That’s the lesson I learned from my mom.” I settle my forehead against hers. “When everything else is too heavy, when the fears creep in that I’m not doing enough in my work or I should keep my distance from a certain stubborn brunette before I get too attached and risk ruining what’s between us, that’s what I can cling to.”
“Jace,” she whispers.
“And it helps that I have a best friend who kicks my ass when necessary.”
“Brooks?”
I nod. “He had to walk away from a relationship, and it cost him almost everything. Not living with the regrets he has meant—means—that I know what’s between us is worth fighting for.”
“Dammit,” she whispers.
I push back her hair. “What?”
