The thing was, loving Alex, or someone like him, wouldn’t challenge her, nor would being with him make her grow, make her better. Loving Dane wasn’t always easy, and wouldn’t be, he came with baggage, but hell, so did she.
Terrifyingly, she realized she wanted the baggage, the genuine, the hard, the messy. She wanted him. She wanted the real, the authentic, the risk of the fall.
It was a shock to realize she was ready to take that leap, to be brave and to be bold. To strip away the layers and dig deep. To see and, God help her, be seen. Properly. Accurately. Wholly.
It scared her half to death, but it was a risk she wanted to take. A risk she’d only take for him.
* * *
Dane looked away, toward the dark horizon beyond the park, toward the flickering Summerween decorations, lights, and the faint echoes of kids still discussing Tad’s fall. His chest rose and fell rapidly, unevenly, as if he hadn’t allowed himself to breathe in days.
Dane knew Wren wanted to see the person behind the mask of calm and control. And he had to decide whether he was brave enough to show her his wounds. He’d spent years patching up other people’s external injuries but never allowed anyone to see his. He wanted to, but how did he explain the regrets, the second-guessing, the blood-soaked memories?
Wren took his hand and led him over to the bleachers, where he sat on the bottom bench, placing his forearms on his knees, and linking his hands. Everyone had left, and they were alone, with just the stage and the stars for company. Tad’s bright smile before he fell, the way he landed, his bloodless face flashed on the big screen of his mind.
Wren sat next to him, thigh to thigh, placed her hand over his and squeezing. He looked at her, his eyebrows raising.
“You keep flexing your hands, and your shoulders are up around your ears.” She slid her fingers between his. “Are you okay?”
Her question was almost casual, soft, something he could ignore if he wanted to. He didn’t want to, though, not tonight. “I didn’t freeze.” He blurted out the words, tired of holding them back.
“I know. And your defensive tone suggests that you’re expecting me to disagree with you.”
He looked away. “Sorry. I thought I would freeze—shit.” Wren didn’t demand an explanation; she simply sat there, waiting for him to be ready to tell her more. Could he? After a minute or two of mental back and forth, he sighed heavily and dragged the words up from what felt like the bottom of his soul. “Do you remember the train crash a few months back? The one north of DC?”
She nodded.
“I was doing a short-term stint as a trauma surgeon at a hospital in DC and made it to the site shortly after the crash occurred. I was one of the first responders. I worked solidly for hours and followed protocol by treating the most gravely injured first, then working my way down to those with less significant injuries. The train was nearly cleared, but there was an old lady with a broken hip, fairly standard. But she was wheezing, and I couldn’t figure out why. I was next to her, and I simply didn’t know what to do, how to help. Everything I knew about medicine vanished, and all I could do was stare at her. Luckily, I had a paramedic with me, and he took over. I stumbled out of there, thinking I was tired.”
Wren rested her head on his shoulder.
“I went to the hospital to follow up on some of the more critical patients, and I met with the surgeons. There was a teenager with a tricky TBI—a traumatic brain injury—and they’d placed him in a medically induced coma because they needed to get the swelling down to operate. I’d done a similar operation last year; they wanted me to consult, maybe even assist. I started shaking, couldn’t breathe.”
“A panic attack?”
“Mmm. Humanatus, my organization, made me consult their resident psychologist, who told me I was burned out and suffering from minor PTSD. They insisted on my taking a break.”
Could he tell her more?
Dane heard a faint thump and raised his head to look at the stage, frowning at the man standing in the wings. He’d thought everyone had gone home. Narrowing his eyes, he watched the still proud figure highlighted by a thin silvery glow. The festival bunting stretching across the stage fluttered, even though there wasn’t a breath of wind. Dane didn’t need the dark wool coat, the epaulettes, the red sash, and the knee-high boots to tell him that the man was a soldier; he saw it in his upright posture, the hardness in his carved-from-granite face, the eyes that had seen and done too much.
Dane rubbed his eyes and tried to convince himself it was a trick of the light—fog rolling off the lake, unexpectedly having to treat Tad, too much stress, and not enough sleep. Having this hard conversation with Wren. Should he ask Wren if she could see the man, too? He started to, then saw the apparition shake his head.
Right. Okay then. They’d keep his presence just between them.
“Carry on, Dane,” Wren prompted.
The soldier didn’t blink, didn’t fade, but simply tipped his head as if he were as interested in Dane’s answer as she was.
“I’ve spent my time in H-Town feeling guilty because I wasn’t out there treating people, like I was neglecting my duty. And I’ve also felt quietly terrified that I’ve lost my edge.”
Dane expected Wren to instantly reassure him, but instead, she simply sat there, silently listening as he laid his pain at her feet. It took a while for her to speak.
“Let me get this straight… Do you really think that stepping back from the field showed that you were weak? That your exhaustion was a failure?”
“My father is a three-star general, and I come from a family of soldiers going back four generations. I’m the one who broke the mold, the continuous line of Trafford service. I’m already a massive failure in my father’s eyes. He wasn’t happy when, after a brief stint, I chose not to be a soldier, and he’s sure not happy that I’ve been on an extended vacation.”
Trafford men are not fragile.
