“They beat the shit out of me. The big one hit me first, closed fist, and then I was on the floor. They ripped my silk shirt. I really loved that shirt, too. It was the nicest piece of clothing I owned. I bought it at Nordstrom Rack and still paid too much for it. I know it’s stupid to be whining about my shirt, but I always felt pretty in that shirt. And then Tex showed up and he saved me. He came around that corner and he threw one of them into the wall so hard. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
I stop. My throat is so tight it’s hard to swallow.
“And then you came,” I say. My voice has gone thin and the heat is building behind my eyes. “You came down that hallway and said, ‘Bay County Sheriff’s Office, everybody on the ground’ and you were, you were just...”
The first tear hits my cheek and I don’t fight it. I have never in my life been able to stop crying when the crying decides to start. Some people can hold it back, push it down, swallow it until they’re alone. I’m not one of those people. When it comes, it comes, and the only thing I can do is let it happen and keep talking through it.
“You had the situation handled,” I say, and my voice cracks on the word handled, and the tears are running now, both sides, warm down my face and dripping off my jaw. “I thought it was over. They were on the ground. And then that other guy, the younger one, his hand went to his jacket, and you saw it. You dropped the guy you were cuffing and you took a step. You moved directly in front of me.”
I reach across to the tray table where a box of tissues sits next to the pizza and pull one out and press it against my face. I laugh through the crying because that’s the other thing my body does, it laughs when it should be serious, a reflex I’ve never been able to turn off. It’s embarrassing and I hate it.
“Damn,” I say, dabbing under my eyes. “There goes my eyeliner again. I want you to know I looked fantastic before I walked in here. Well... I mean as fantastic as this face can look right now with the bruises and busted lip situation.”
His face softens. He’s looking at me, steady and patient, not trying to rush me through it.
“The gun went off inside his jacket.” I wipe my face with a tissue that’s already soaked. “The bullet hit you. And you fell backward on top of me. All of you. And your blood was suddenly everywhere, on my shirt, soaking through my jeans, and your body was shaking against mine every time you tried to breathe. And I was lying there on that floor underneath you and I thought you were dying. I thought you were dying because you stepped in front of me. Because let’s face it, I would be dead if you hadn’t done that. The bullet was headed straight for my head, you took a step and it hit you instead. And here you are now.”
I pull another tissue. The tears aren’t stopping.
“I’m a cop, Benji,” he says. His voice goes gentle. “I saw a threat and I moved between it and the civilian. That’s what we’re trained to do. I’d do it again.”
“Well, that’s stupid,” I choke out. “Don’t you dare do that again! What the fuck is wrong with you? Don’t say that!”
He’s lying in a hospital bed, unable to feel anything below his waist, and he’s telling me he’d do it again like it isn’t even a question.
“Anyway, that’s why I’m here,” I say. I ball up the tissue in my fist and take a stuttering breath. “That’s why I brought pizza and coffee. Because you did that for me. Because nobody in my entire life has ever stepped in front of anything for me, Mickey. When the bad stuff comes, I take it alone. And you put your body between mine and a gun. So how could I not be here? Tell me that. How could I possibly not be here? You’re in this bed because of me. Because Sheila told me to leave and I didn’t. Because I’d rather correct someone’s grammar than save my own life. And you’re lying here alone and you can’t feel your legs and I’m supposed to what? Forget about you? Drive back to my rental and answer idiotic emails about napkins? Go about my life like this didn’t happen?”
I’m a wreck. I grab more tissues. My ribs ache from the crying, that deep bruised-rib ache that makes every breath painful.
He’s not saying one word. I need him to give me an answer. To say something, anything. So I keep talking.
“How could I not be here, Mickey? Someone should be here for you. And that someone should be me. And itwillbe me. I’ll be here.”
Neither of us says anything for a long time. I cry until I’m cried out for the night and there’s nothing left, just the hollow, wrung-out feeling that comes after.
“Benji,” he finally says. “What happened to me is not your fault. I need you to hear that from me. Not from Tex. Not from Stormy. From me, the person it happened to. Four men followed you into a hallway and beat you up because of who you are. One of them had a gun. That’s whose fault this is. Not yours.”
“But if I had left…”
“If you had left, you’d have spent the rest of your life knowing that those men chased you out of a room you had the right to be in. And that would’ve been wrong.”
I’ve spent my entire life hearing that I’m reckless and stupid. And now he’s paying the price of my stubbornness with his own legs and he’s telling me he understands.
I wipe my face one more time. My eyes feel swollen and raw. I’m sure I look terrible, blotchy and red, eyeliner probably streaked to my chin. But the knot in my stomach has loosened a little.
“You’re not what I expected, Officer Weaver,” I say, before I can think better of it.
“What did you expect?”
I think about every cop I’ve ever dealt with. The ones who pulled me over and laughed at my makeup. The one who took a statement after I got jumped outside a club in Miami and treated the whole thing like a paperwork problemhe didn’t want to deal with. The one who told me to “tone it down” if I didn’t want trouble.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Just not someone who would say what you just said.”
He picks up his coffee and takes a sip. He starts to say something and then stops. I don’t push because pushing feels wrong in this room.
“Our pizza’s getting cold,” he says. “You told me everything I needed to hear. I’m ready for another slice. How about you?”
He’s telling me to let it go. The hard conversation is over.
