A waft of cedarwood circles me, along with the faint hues of coffee beans and vanilla. My eyes flick down to the Styrofoam cup in his hand, a blurry line of steam floating out of the cutout where a thin black straw is placed. I don’t mention that it’s a bit late in the afternoon to be drinking caffeine. Mostly because I’ve been guilty of sneaking caffeine-laden teas late into the evening on occasion.
My eyes lift to that scarred line on his neck, and I ask, “What happened to you?”
Confusion slinks into his features as he stands only five feet away. He tilts his head as he looks at me. His free hand dips into his pocket. “What do you mean?”
I lift my own finger and point to my neck. “Your skin is flawed.”
He lets out an almost silent sigh and comes to stand next to me, his back to the brick as well. We both look out on the campus, watching as people come and go and cars turn into theparking lots. The space around us whirrs with a quietness that oddly doesn’t feel uncomfortable. When he accidentally brushes his arm against mine, a tangible buzzing sweeps along it. I pretend it doesn’t exist.
“The rainstorm that brings tragedy doesn’t only hover in one place, Miss Prescott.”
“Emory,” I correct. “Please just call me that.”
He dips his chin in an understanding nod then adds, “The storm—it wanders around and stops where it pleases. You’re not the only one who’s been drenched by its presence.”
“What happened?” I ask in a soft, low voice, desperately wanting to hear the misfortune that he grappled with, and maybe still does.
“You’re my patient, Emory. We’re not here to talk about what happened to me. We’re here to help you get through what you experienced.”
I hate how that’s the truth, but I’m not quite ready to talk about my own experiences today. I want someone else’s. More specifically, I want his.
“I’m not your patient right now,” I murmur, glancing over. “My appointment hasn’t started yet.”
“That’s not how this works.”
He looks at me—seesme, our eyes mingling. I don’t know why, but my stomach does a little dip when his honeyed gaze settles and stays on me.
And I reach out the same way back, because I want to see him.
I want to see someone other than me.
His arm brushes mine again when he shifts, bringing his coffee up to his mouth to sip at the caffeinated liquid inside. “I was the victim of a stabbing gone wrong.”
A silent gasp catches in my throat, and I blink repeatedly, not expecting to hear that. I don’t know what I thought he was going to say but definitely not something so…violent.
Reaching out, I steady a hand on his arm. In hindsight, touching him probably isn’t what I should be doing. The little bit of a relationship we share is professional in nature. That typically doesn’t include physical affection when you feel sorry for the other person.
But I can’t help it.
“It was bad, wasn’t it?” I ask in a careful voice.
His throat ripples when he swallows. He shifts his gaze forward, but I can sense the immensity of the predicament he once found himself in the subtleness of his features. “I was walking to my car one night after leaving the gym. Someone approached me from behind, said a couple words, but before I could react and defend myself, he stabbed me in my lower back. I lost a lot of blood. They had to put a catheter in my neck for a blood transfusion. That’s why there’s a scar there.” He glances over at me again, and this sudden urge to wrap my arms around him comes over me. “Scars come in varying sizes and shades, Emory. Some of us bear the weight of them physically, but others are branded with them emotionally, mentally.”
Our gazes stay locked, and I say, “Sometimes all three.”
“Sometimes all three,” he repeats, his eyes flicking between mine. We share a silent moment, and I drop my hand from his arm, realizing way too late that maybe I should have refrained. “I’m sorry you had to go through all of that. I can’t even imagine how hard that must have been for you.”
He blows out a loud breath. “We’re all victims of life. We all have things we go through, and wounds we hold close to our chests, our hearts. That doesn’t mean we still can’t make the most of living.”
“Were you able to?” I ask him, my eyes cutting down to his neck again. “Did you get back to living life merrily right after it happened?”
A humorless chuckle leaves him. It’s short and to the point. “No. It took me time. It took working through what happened and not seeing myself as only a victim—but a person at the wrong place at the wrong time—to understand it more deeply. It took forgiveness—a damn lot of it, if I’m being honest—and inner reflection.”
“Did they ever find the person that did it?”
“My assailant was looking for someone who looked like me. It was dark, and I suppose he couldn’t make out the differences. The establishment’s security footage was able to get a solid snapshot of his face. He was arrested a week after it happened.”
I hold my messenger bag close to me as I drop my eyes to the grassy ground. My appointment should be starting any minute now, but I can’t bring myself to move. I don’t want to sever this connection, the untimely truth that exists between us, which is that we both know what tragedy looks and feels like.
