Once we’re inside, we take a few seconds to brush the snow from our coats before going any further. Mike yanks off his boots and places them on the mat by the door, then turns to me with worry etched into his forehead. His hair still has tiny flakes of snow dusted all over it, and bits of blood still remain under his nose and on his chin.
He frowns as he looks at me still standing in my dripping coat and snow-caked books. “Darce. You’re in pain. What’s wrong? Did you hurt yourself out there?”
“I’m fine,” Bending down, I pull the right boot off easily. The left is more of a struggle, especially with my hands half-numb from the cold, and I’m hesitant to do it front of Mike in case my sock ends up getting pulled off, too.
But ever the protector, the kind man I always knew him to be, he drops to his knees and slides my left boot off carefully. As he touches my foot, I flinch, my breath catching as I wait for the inevitable questions.
What’s wrong with your foot? Why doesn’t it feel normal?
Still kneeling, Mike goes still. His shoulders tense.
Then he looks up, understanding in his gaze.
Shame and regret and guilt come at me in waves.
After all this time, the years of hiding, there’s no escaping the truth anymore.
“Darce.” Mike stands and holds out his hand. His expression is so sad it brings tears to my eyes. “You don’t have to tell me. You don’t owe me?—”
“I do.” A lump sticks in my throat. “I should have told you a long time ago.”
As we head over to the couch, my hand securely tucked into Mike’s, I nearly chicken out at least half a dozen times. I don’thaveto tell him. I could run—okay, hobble, at this point—into the kitchen to make the coffee I promised. Or fill the time with meaningless chatter until the tow truck gets here. Anything other than telling Mike the truth.
But my gut tells me it’s time.
Once we’re seated, I stare at the fireplace as I try to gather my courage to tell Mike something I should have shared sixteen years ago. My heart flutters with nerves and my stomach twists into a knot. Dread settles heavy over my shoulders.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Mike repeats, his tone achingly gentle. Compassion darkens his eyes to a deep, Atlantic blue. I can imagine him talking to victims like this, making them feel comfortable even in the most traumatic of situations.
He would have done the same for me, if I’d let him. But I didn’t see it that way back then. All I could see was the dark, the yawning emptiness that bridged who I used to be to the new, not-normal me.
“I do, though,” I say. “You must have guessed. Touching my foot. You know…”
His brow creases. “Is it a prosthetic, Darce?”
My throat gets thick. Dropping my gaze to my lap, I reply quietly, “Yes. It’s a transtibial prosthesis. So not just my foot, but everything below my knee. It doesn’t usually bother me, but walking in the snow… it’s more challenging. And with the move and the new job, I haven’t been working out as much as I usually do.”
Mike sucks in a breath. “How long, Darce?”
And there it is.
“Sixteen years.”
I look back at him just in time to see pain flare in his eyes. “Sixteen years?”
“It happened when I was student teaching out in Rochester. I went out with a few of the teachers one night. Not a date,” I add quickly. “Just to hang out. But I had more to drink than I planned, so I was going to take a cab home. Then Jeff offered to give me a ride. He insisted he was sober, but… I should have paid better attention.”
The fingers still wrapped around mine tighten. “What happened?”
“He lost control of the car. And we crashed. It was… bad.” The memories threaten to intrude again, but I ruthlessly shove them back. “Jeff was killed on impact. I was thrown clear, but my leg… I didn’t realize until I woke up in the hospital and the doctor said they’d have to amputate.
He flinches. “Why didn’t you tell me? You know I would have come.”
“I know.” My voice wobbles. “But back then… I couldn’t bear for you to see me like that. I felt so ugly. Broken. And I was so young. Immature. I should have known better, should have known you wouldn’t judge me, but—” A little sob slips out. “I was stupid.”
“Ah, Darce.” Sorrow drags at his features. “I wish you’d told me.”
“I wish I had, too.” Swallowing hard, I continue, “I couldn’t think straight for months. And… I told myself you were better off without having to deal with my crap. I was at this rehab place out in White Plains, and you had your new job in Albany. A job you needed to give all your attention to.”
