“I was nineteen,” he says, his voice cracking. “First year of college, and before I ever went to med school. I was in the car with my father when we were hit. I worked on him for twenty minutes before the sirens arrived. I did everything right. Every compression. Every breath. I followed the protocol to the letter.” His eyes fill with a sudden, jagged heat. “He was my first patient, and I failed him.”
Oh, Doc.
“Beckett, look at me.”
He raises his head, the raw vulnerability in his expression making my lungs feel tight.
“You didn’t fail him. You gave him twenty minutes he wouldn’t have had otherwise. You gave him a son who cared enough to try. You didn't lose him; you fought for him.”
He reaches for me suddenly, his hands sliding to my waist and pulling me off my chair until I’m standing between his knees. He leans forward, burying his face in my stomach. My fingers tangle in his damp hair, holding him as he finally lets go of the sixteen years of held breath he’s been carrying.
His whole body is trembling, a silent earthquake of sixteen years of held breath. I stand there in the quiet of the kitchen, being his anchor, until the tremors stop.
When he pulls back, his face is pained, but his eyes are clear for the first time tonight.
“Can you tell me about him?” I ask softly, brushing a stray tear from his cheek with my thumb. “Tell me something about your dad. Not the patient. The man.”
He leans back, his hands still resting on my hips like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go. A ghost of a smile plays on his lips. “He whistled. Always off-key. Drove my mother insane, but he never stopped.”
I smile back, my heart aching for the nineteen-year-old boy still living inside this man. “That’s the man you should remember tonight.”
Later, after he’s showered and the adrenaline has finally drained from the room, we lie down in his bed. We’re both fully clothed, facing each other in the dark.
“Stay?” he whispers, his hand finding mine under the covers.
“I’m not going anywhere, Doc,” I promise.
He leans forward, resting his forehead against mine. For the first time since I met the man who thuds above my head, I hear his breathing deepen and even out as he finally falls into a sleep that isn't a chase.
For once, he isn't running.
He’s just here.
Forty-Seven
Something is off. I know it the second I walk through the door.
There’s no shouting, no frantic phone call, no neighbor calling to tell me something is wrong. It’s subtler than that, which somehow makes it worse.
The house smells too clean. Like someone has been scrubbing at the silence, trying to bleach the reality out of the floorboards. The curtains are half-drawn despite the bright afternoon, and the radio is humming a low, vintage tune in the kitchen. It’s one of those old stations my mother prefers because the hosts don’t talk too fast.
I find her at the table, her hands wrapped around a mug that’s clearly gone cold. She looks up, and the mask slides on instantly.
“Hi, baby,” she says. Her voice is bright. Too bright. “You’re early.”
I glance at the oven clock. I’m not. I’m exactly on time.
“Thought I’d check in,” I say, forcing my own smileinto place as I lean down to kiss her cheek. I can feel the tension in her skin. “How are you feeling today?”
“Good,” she says. “Very good.”
Her eyes flick to the window, then dart back to mine. She tucks a loose silver strand behind her ear, and I notice the fine, rhythmic tremor in her fingers.
Good day, my ass.
“Where’s Dad?” I ask, keeping my tone light as I drop my bag on the counter.
“He’s out back doing a few things in the garden.”
