“What finally made her leave him?”
Jake’s face darkens. He takes a long pull of his beer before answering.
“The bastard was a complete fucking prick. They were having an argument in the car park outside the university. Georgie wanted to stay and talk to her advisor about her dissertation, and he wanted to leave. Some controlling bullshit like always. She was trying to explain, and he grabbed her hand—supposedly to ‘guide’ her to the car. Opened the door and slammed it on her fingers. Hard.”
My whole body goes still.
“She started crying and he immediately said it was an accident. ‘Sorry baby, didn’t see your hand there.’ But then he got angry because she was crying. Said she was ‘making a scene,’ and ‘being dramatic.’ Left her there and drove off. She called me from A&E later, could barely speak through tears. Turned out two of her fingers were broken. It was that that finally did it.”
The rage hits me so fast I can’t breathe. My fist clenches around my glass hard enough that Jake actually reaches over.
“Patrick—”
“He broke her fucking fingers?”
“That’s what finally ended it, yeah.”
“What happened to him? Tell me someone did something.”
“Absolutely fuck all. He kept his job at the university. We couldn’t prove intent. Georgie said trying to report it would destroy her more than just leaving.” Jake’s face is bitter. “But she couldn’t stay there after that. Couldn’t walk those halls knowing he was still tutoring there.”
“He broke her fingers and kept his fucking job?” The words come out too loud. Several people turn to stare.
“Patrick. Calm down.”
I force myself to lower my voice, but my whole body’s vibrating with rage. “Name.”
“No.”
“His fucking name, Jake.”
“So you can what? Track him down? Beat the shit out of him? That’ll really help Georgie, won’t it?” Jake’s voice is tired. “I wanted to kill him myself. Still do sometimes.” Jake signals for another round. “So when you say you love her, you better fucking mean it.”
FORTY-THREE
Walk down the path or turn around
Georgie
Tromsø, Norway. The Gatewayto the Arctic, my guidebook calls it, though you can barely read those words anymore because I’ve pawed the pages so often.
I’m finally on my first expedition with Jake, along with a few other tourists, and it’s been tough but so rewarding I could burst. Or freeze to death. One of the two.
Last night I saw the Northern Lights for the first time. These green ribbons were dancing across the sky, shimmering and pulsing. I just stood there in the snow, mouth hanging open likea complete numpty, probably looking like someone who’d never encountered the concept of light before.
Today we went snowshoeing, which sounds athletic until you realize it’s essentially waddling with tennis rackets strapped to your feet. Then ice fishing, which involved sitting on a frozen lake with a hole cut in it, dangling string into water so cold it could kill you in minutes. Mental, really. The locals do thisfor fun.
I actually caught something, a little Arctic char, all silver and pink and gasping, its eye staring right into my soul. I looked at its tiny fish face and immediately felt like a murderer.
“Sorry, mate,” I whispered before letting it slip back into the hole. I gave it a little mental funeral blessing:May you swim free and avoid all future hooks, amen.
Jake rolled his eyes. Heartless man. He caught eleven and kept them all. Monster.
Now we’re trudging toward tonight’s camp spot, and I can’t stop thinking about how this trip has been weirdly brilliant for my coding brain. Away from screens, surrounded by all this epic silence, my mind’s been spinning up features for IRIS faster than I can scribble them in my frozen notebook with my frozen fingers.
Maybe this is what kept Patrick centered all those years. All that time on mountains and glaciers, letting his brain breathe and reset.
Just thinking his name makes something sharp twist in my chest. I think it always will. When I’m forty, married to someone sensible who doesn’t accuse me of corporate sabotage, I’ll still feel this specific ache when I think of him.
