"Not really."The admission comes out as barely a whisper.
"What happens when you close your eyes?"
I go back to that night and I relive it, over and over and over again.
The words stick in my throat.
"Surviving and processing are two different things, Lenora.Can I ask you something?"
"That's your job isn't it?To ask things?"
The sarcasm tastes bitter on my tongue.
She smiles warmly, and I feel bad for coming at her with snark remarks.
"Do you know who it was that was driving that night?"
The question hangs in the air between us.
My whole body goes rigid, every muscle locking up as if I'm bracing for impact all over again.My hands begin to shake almost imperceptibly, and I press them flat against my thighs to stop the tremor.
The room suddenly feels too small, too warm.I can almost smell the asphalt, hear the screech of brakes, feel the cold seeping through my clothes as I start bleeding out.
Yes, I know who was driving.
I can’t escape Scott’s voice or the look on his face when he realised who it was he’d hit.The smell of alcohol on his breath when he spoke to the woman and told her to get back in the car.And the scent of her perfume drifting as they both walked away.
But saying it out loud feels like lighting a fuse to a bomb I'm not ready to detonate.
"No," I say finally, my voice barely audible.
"Who are you protecting?"
The question catches me off guard.
I blink rapidly, my carefully constructed walls beginning to crack.
"What do you mean?"
"In my experience, when someone refuses to talk about who hurt them, it's usually because they're protecting someone else.So who is it?Who are you shielding by keeping this secret?"
My throat tightens, and I swallow hard.
“I, I’m not protecting anyone."
She sets down her pen and looks at me directly.
"What would happen if you told the truth about that night?"
Images flash through my mind—Nate's face when he finds out it was his father, who he already hated, that nearly killed me.
The rage that would consume him.
The way it would destroy him in new ways and what was left of his family.
"He'd kill him," I whisper, not realizing I've just said it out loud.The words escape like air from a punctured tire.
"Who would?"
