The cup she had just picked up was slammed back down again as she turned to glare at him.
“Real smooth, Jake.”
He shrugged, but didn’t apologize.
“Okay, you want answers? Well, so do I. Why the fuck are you messing around with cars when you’re a—and I quote from your legions of devoted friends—brilliant doctor?”
“Swearing doesn’t suit you.”
“You just swore, and fuck, fuck, fuck you, McBride.”
He felt his temper ignite. The rock-steady composure that he had once been legendary for deserted him again.
“Why is it that other people can change their careers, but not me?” His growl was loud in the small kitchen, but she didn’t flinch. Even through his anger, he could see that she showed no fear.
“Because you spent years and years learning to do what you loved, while the rest of us flitted about trying to work out what we wanted to be… if we ever grew up. I remember hearing you talk about being a doctor in school, McBride. It wasn’t a job; it was a passion.”
His chest felt tight, and suddenly he was there, back in that dirty room trying to stop those children from dying. The school had been bombed, and he and his unit were the first on the scene. Jake had worked for hours and hours, trying to save the ones he could. It was after, when he could let himself think, that he’d known he couldn’t do this anymore, couldn’t see another child or person killed in this thankless war that would probably never end. And then the flashbacks had started.
“I don’t want to talk about this.” His voice sounded raw.
“Why?”
She was standing before him, but he couldn’t see her, only the blood and the small, helpless children begging him to take away their pain.
“Shut up!”
“No, I want to know why you walked away from what you love. Jake?” He felt her hand on his arm, but he didn’t want it, nor did he want to unleash the anger inside him on her.
“I have to go.”
“So, I had to bare my soul to you, but you won’t do the same with me. You asked and I told you, McBride, when I’ve never told another person what I did to my mother.”
“You didn’t kill your mother.” His chest was so tight, it hurt to talk. He could feel it creeping up on him; soon he’d start shaking and sweating.
“You having a flashback or something?”
“What?” He focused on her face; maybe he could will it to stop.
“You’re pale and sweaty and your eyes have gone weird.”
“Weird how?” He could feel his chest rising and falling as his breathing increased.
“I know when someone is panicking, Jake. I should, because I had—have flashbacks.”
“What?” He blinked a couple of times, willing the visions away.
“I see my mother sometimes.” Her voice was flat and cold. She turned away from him again, and he heard the sound of water running. Then she was back with a glass in her hand. “Drink this slowly. I find it helps sometimes.”
He did and was disgusted to see his hands were shaking. She placed hers over his on the glass and lifted it to his lips again when he lowered it.
“Thanks.”
Lowering the glass, she picked up his coffee and wrapped his hands around it.
“Talk to me, Jake. It may help.”
“Did it help you?”
