I raised an eyebrow.
“He realized after that, maybe the doctors weren’t so clueless after all. Maybe they actually knew a thing or two about how to keep him from falling apart.”
“So what’s the moral of your story—don’t go climbing any roofs?”
She grinned. “Exactly. And maybe stay out of war zones.”
“A little late for that.”
“Yeah, maybe it is,” she said. “But there’s more than one kind of war zone, Mr. Grey.”
“Is there?”
“The ones you carry around with you—the kind that don’t show up on an X-ray.”
“I’ve heard the speeches before, Doc. I’m fine.”
Dr. Carter’s gaze hardened. She was good at this—at letting the silence work for her, filling the gaps with something I couldn’t see but could damn well feel.
“I’m not giving you a speech. I’m just saying what I see.”
“And what’s that?”
“A man who’s running on fumes. Someone who doesn’t trust the ground under his feet but keeps walking anyway.”
I wasn’t about to let her dig deeper. This wasn’t her job. She was here to poke at my knee and my shoulder, not at the parts of me that couldn’t be patched up with surgery or pills.
“I appreciate your concern,” I said, standing from the exam table. My knee protested, but I ignored it. “But I’ll stick to the basics. PT, the meds. Nothing else.”
Dr. Carter stepped aside, staring up at me. “Take care of yourself,” she said, her voice warm. “And if you climb any roofs, make sure you’ve got areallygood ladder.”
That got a half-assed smirk out of me. “I’ll be sure to remember that.”
The door clicked shut behind me, and I walked back down the hallway, past the pale walls and the floors marked up from too many boots like mine.
Pushing through the lobby doors, I stepped outside. The parking lot was mostly empty, with just a few beat-up cars scattered around and a dusty pickup truck parked crooked, as if even parking straight was too much effort.
When I finally reached my car, I dropped into the seat and slammed the door shut behind me. It didn’t take long for the silence to creep in, loud enough to make my ears ring. It was strange how silence always felt louder after leaving a place like that.
Quiet wasn’t always peaceful. Sometimes it gave my thoughts room to get louder. Too much quiet let certain things creep in—things better left forgotten.
When I dug into my pocket for my phone, the screen lit up with a notification.
Missed Call: Remy.
Five missed calls.
Two voice mails.
All from Remy.
The first had been yesterday morning, then again in the afternoon. Three more had followed today, the last one just a half hour ago. No messages, just a string of unanswered rings I’d been too tired—or too stubborn—to deal with.
I should’ve ignored it again. I should’ve shoved the phone back in my pocket and driven off like I hadn’t seen it. But instead I tapped his name, bringing up his contact info. The photo next to his number was one I hadn’t changed in years.
It rang once, twice, then Remy picked up halfway through the third.
“Marco.” He said my name with a demand. “About damn time you picked up your phone.”
