“You drive like a maniac.”
“Oh my friggin’ God. You’re serious. After your weird-ass driving rules in New York City?” I shake my head because this argument could last for days. “Let’s change the subject. Now that we’ve solved the Chandler case, we need to find my flight recorder.”
He wipes beads of sweat from his forehead. “Technically, it’s my black box and I put a team together to locate it.”
“Wait. You never told me that.”
“You never asked.” Smiling, he kisses my cheek. “I got you into this and I will get you out.”
Whoa. With all the warning of sheet lightning, an awful memory short circuits my brain and I pull to the curb. Shit. I can’t afford a break down, not now. Unable to hide my panic attack, I open the car door, and place my head between my legs.
“Landy, are you sick?” Dash pats my back and as I shake my head, no, the nightmare fades enough for me to stick it back in the box.
Taking deep breaths, I inch back to my seat. As I wait for my pounding heart to quiet, he frowns. “Talk to me.”
“It only makes things worse. My way is better.” I glance at his face and his empathy destroys me.
“And what way is that?” His lips, which have been on me in the most intimate ways, now demand entrance to my deepest, darkest, place.
I’ve never told anyone this before and as I try to explain, tears well. “I put bad memories into a virtual box and duct tape it shut, so they can’t escape.”
“And how’s that working for you?” He captures a lone tear with an index finger as I swallow hard and shrug.
“Better than my shrink.”
“I’m guessing The Corp gave you one right after the rape, right?”
I nod.
“Did you ever wonder if he had ulterior motives?”
I think for a moment. Oh my God. He’s right. My stomach heaves, I puke, and he races around to hold my head.
Once I’m done, he reaches into the glove compartment, finds a paper napkin, and hands it to me. “I’m sorry, baby. I shouldn’t’ve been so blunt.”
“Don’t be. You’ve proved my point. If I start to talk about the incident, I lose my shit.” As I fumble around in my purse for a peppermint lifesaver, he tips my chin up, brows furrowed.
“Do you need to be institutionalized?”
“What? No, of course not.”
He shrugs. “Then destroy the damn box.”
“You can’t possibly understand.”
A long slow breath hisses between his teeth. “Dad and I tried to get my mom help but she refused. I can’t go through that again.”
“Listen, I’m really sorry.” Choked up, I start up the car, drive along the shoulder, and as I merge into traffic, he touches my earlobe.
“Don’t be. It made me who I am.” Sighing, he shakes his head. “You need to face your baggage. It’s not what happens to you, firefly, it’s how you deal, afterwards. You’re a goddamned warrior. Fight like one.
It’s an odd pep talk but it works, and I feel lighter. I wonder… Picturing a barbeque skewer, I stab a hole in my virtual container and let a few whisps of memories out. It’s bad, but nowhere near as catastrophic as I thought it would be.
I share a little of the horrific experience then we keep the conversation light. He tells me stories of jet setting around the world with his dad. My tales of summers in Texas, swimming holes, and water moccasins seem tame by comparison.
“T-bone or rib eye?”
“Both.” I laugh then ask, “French fries or baked potato?”
