Left Unsaid
LEFT UNSAID
Fionn
What the fuck am I doing?
I’ve asked myself that at least thirty times on the drive home from the campground. I’ve tried not to let it show that this thought is consuming me. I’ve kept up conversation, trying to distract myself from this mantra that repeats itself on a loop beneath my inner monologue. But now that I’ve lifted Rose out of the passenger seat and set her down on the walkway to my home, it blares through my mind like an air-raid siren.
What the fuck am I doing?
Helping. That’s what I’m doing. She asked for help, and something about her desperate request has embedded into me, a thorn that’s lodged deep in my mind. The strange thing is, I can’t remember any patient having asked me before, not like that. Symptoms. Histories. Medications. I’ve heard family ancestries, passed down in the building blocks that make each one of us unique. I’ve heard fear and gratitude. But I’ve never heard that simple plea for help. Not until Rose.
And she needs it.
Rose struggles up the steep stairs to my door on her crutches, the locomotion still unfamiliar to her. She hisses a string of curses. I want to simply pick her up and deposit her on the landing, but I hover behind her instead, waiting for her to work out the best way to maneuver on her own. When she gets to the narrow porch, she turns toward me and offers a weary but triumphant smile. I try not to be spellbound by it, but I think I fail.
“Well,” she says, snagging my attention away from her full lips and back to her eyes where it belongs. “That kind of sucked. Hope I don’t have to get anywhere quickly.”
“You did well.”
“Would have been easier if you just picked me up.”
“Umm.” I grip a hand over the back of my neck, trying to recall if I actually said my thoughts out loud. “Probably …?”
“Maybe you should make me an adult-sized BabyBjorn and just carry me around strapped to your chest,” she barrels on, a teasing glimmer bright in her mahogany eyes. “Can you imagine? Trips to the grocery store would be fucking hilarious. If you have a sewing machine, I can totally make that happen.”
What the fuck am I doing? I think again, but this time the question has taken on a whole new meaning.
Rose is standing on my porch grinning at me like a little demon. Sure, she asked me for help, but I don’t really know this woman. What if she’s a complete weirdo? Or worse, dangerous ? Unhinged? I know so many dangerous, unhinged people that maybe my barometer for that shit is broken. She certainly didn’t seem like it the first few times we met, with those big brown eyes rimmed with thick dark lashes and her angelic face framed with chocolate fringe, the waves untamable as they cascaded over her shoulders. But there’s a mischievous streak in her that I think is maybe just a little fissure that leads to an endless well of chaos.
Her expression softens, and I wonder for the second time if I’ve spilled my thoughts into the world. I swear she’s climbed into my head when she says, “Don’t look so mortified, Doc. I just get extra weird when I’m nervous and you’re standing there being all doctory and shit. I’m only joking.”
“I knew that—”
“Probably having second thoughts about letting me in your house now though, right?”
Maybe. “No.”
“That was totally a maybe. It’s cool, I’ll be one hundred percent fine with the corn children, trust me,” she says, flashing me a smile as she firms her grip on the crutches and swings closer to the stairs.
“Hold up.” My palm is wrapped around her wrist before I can even string together the arguments about whether or not I should touch her so casually. Rose’s eyes linger on the point of contact. I should let go, especially with the way she stares down at my hand as though we’re soldered together and she can’t work out how or when it happened. “I’m not having second thoughts. Just … please. Come in.”
Though I uncurl my fingers from her wrist, the loss of that touch resonates in my skin.
I open the door. And for a moment, she hesitates. Then, with a faint smile that evaporates in a halo of nerves, she turns and passes over the threshold.
“It’s a nice house,” Rose says as she swings her way into my living room, the click of the crutches filling the space with a metallic melody. She casts me a brief smile over her shoulder. As though drawn by a magnetic force, she maneuvers closer to the coffee table until she bends to pick up the crocheted coaster resting on the surface. It was the very first thing I ever crocheted. The pattern is imperfect. Some holes are larger than others.
I’m not sure what she must be thinking as she inspects the cream-colored yarn. She holds on to it as she pans her gaze across the overstuffed couches and chairs, then toward the simple kitchen that still clings to a 1950s vibe despite the new paint and countertops, and then the dining table where only one place mat rests on the surface.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Seeing my home through someone else’s eyes is humbling. Literally one place mat. And a single crocheted coaster. What the fuck must she be thinking?
Probably the same thing my dickhead older brothers think about my life here in Hartford, Nebraska. And it’s the first time I really acknowledge that they might be on to something. Lachlan was right. I’m knee-deep in my peak “Hallmark Sad Man Cinderwhatever” era.
“It’s really nice,” Rose says again as she sets the coaster down.
“You think so?”
“Yeah.” When she turns to face me, her smile seems genuine. Maybe a little melancholy. She puts on a brighter smile when she says, “I really do. Feels like a proper grown-up home. Something befitting of Dr. McSpicy Kane.”
I snort a laugh and set her bag down next to the couch as I head past her to the kitchen. “Just call me Fionn.”
Rose replicates the pronunciation. When I look over, she’s watching me, her dark eyes fixed to mine as though searching for something. “I’m sorry if I’m upending your life. Cramping your style or whatnot.”
“You’re not.” Part of me wants to admit to what she must already be thinking—that despite her polite words, there’s nothing much to upend. Now that she’s suddenly appeared, I realize how minimal my life has become. How monochrome. It’s just work. Gym. More gym and more work. A monthly appearance tending to the wounded fighters at the Blood Brothers barn. My only real socialization has been with Sandra and her club of crocheters every week, and that only started for me a few months ago. I guess that’s what I wanted when I moved here. Maybe not the crocheting, but the solitude. And yet, this is the first time I’ve wondered if I don’t want the result I’ve successfully achieved.
I clear my throat as though it will rid me of these questions I don’t feel ready to explore. “Want something to eat?”
Rose’s stomach responds before she has a chance to, releasing an audible growl. “That would be great, thank you.”
I bring out my blender from the cupboard and set it on the counter, then rummage in the freezer for frozen greens. Rose taps her way to the table, setting the crutches against its edge. I look up when she drags a chair back and lets herself down with a heavy sigh. She lifts her injured leg onto the chair next to her and closes her eyes, tilting her head back to rub her neck, the shimmering sliver of flesh on her chest exposed by the low V-neck T-shirt she’s wearing. I’ve definitely been avoiding even the remote potential for romantic encounters way too long if that tiny slice of flesh threatens to upend all my attention. I look away, though it’s harder to do than it should be. I start cutting oranges just to keep my focus where it belongs.
“How long have you lived here?” she asks, and there’s a shuffling sound that draws my gaze back to her. She has a deck of cards in her hands, their edges bent and softened with use.
“Just over four years now.” I watch as she nods and sets the deck on the table. “I was in Boston before that.”
“Is that the accent I hear?”
“No. I was born in Ireland.”
She nods again and flips a card over, leaning closer to examine its details. “You left when you were young. Thirteen, right?”
My hand stops midway to delivering oranges to the blender. My head tilts. “How’d you know that?”
Rose looks at me and grins, her eyes devious and sparkling. “Magic.” I’m just about to pepper her with questions when she shrugs and drops her gaze to the card. “Or maybe it was just a lucky guess. Figured you were old enough to keep the accent, young enough for it to soften. Thirteen seemed about right.” She flips a second card and hums a low note.
“Tarot?” I ask, and she nods without looking up. “Is this what you do at the circus?”
“Yeah, in part. But mostly I’m the Sparrow in the Cage,” she says theatrically, framing her last words with jazz hands. She glances up just long enough to catch my confusion. “I ride a motorcycle in the Globe of Death.” I open my mouth to ask her a thousand questions, but she turns the conversation back on me before I have the chance. “So, you ended up in Nebraska in an attempt to avoid romantic relationships?”
I snort a laugh, picking up a carrot to start peeling it. “Let me guess. You came up with that one due to the bachelor vibes of the house. Was it the doily that gave me away?”
“No, but I do have questions about that.”
“I’m getting the impression you have many questions.” I plop the carrot into the blender and watch as Rose examines a third card and shakes her head. “How did you know about that?”
Rose pins me with a stare that slides right into me. One that burrows in. Drills beneath layers that suddenly seem too thin to hide behind. I don’t just feel looked at or assessed. I feel seen . And after a moment that seems like it’s pulled too tight by an invisible hand, her expression smooths, as though she’s found what she’s looking for. “Magic,” she says, and with a wisp of a sad smile, she takes the cards and shuffles them back into the deck. “How’s that working out for you? Being here, I mean. Getting away from Boston.”
“I don’t know.” I slowly start to peel another carrot. I can feel her eyes, the weight of her watchful gaze. She says nothing, just waits to see which way I’ll take her question. And part of me wants to elaborate on the honest answer I just gave her. But I don’t. “What about you, how’s the circus working out for you?”
Rose breathes a laugh, but I can sense the disappointment in it. “Not so well now, I guess. They all left.” When I look up, she does a little shimmy on her chair, wiggling her fingers before she pulls what seems to be a white crystal charm in the shape of a bird from her jacket pocket. She makes a slicing motion through the air in front of her and then places the object on her deck. Though I want to ask her about it, I don’t, already feeling thrown off course by her presence without broaching the realm of crystals and divination.
I clear my throat, trying to regain my sense of balance when I ask, “How old were you when you joined Silveria?”
Rose’s smile fades, turning brittle at the edges. “Fifteen.”
“Pretty young,” I say, and she nods once. “Why?”
“Had nowhere else to go.” Rose shrugs as she pockets the crystal and shuffles her cards. “When Silveria Circus came to town, I took half the money I’d saved and spent all day there. Next day, I took the other half. Third and final day, I went straight to José and begged him for a job. He didn’t say yes, but he didn’t say no. When they pulled up stakes to leave, I hitched a lift with one of the crew.” Her expression is brighter when she looks up at me, blowing a strand of hair from her eyes. “I worked and he fed me. I proved I was tough, and he paid me.”
“So, what, you just … left home?”
“No,” she says. “I just left.”
I want to ask her what she means, but the light seems momentarily lost from her eyes. I watch as she flips over a card and hums a thoughtful note. “Do you enjoy it?” I finally ask, unsure if I should be scraping away at her past when the present is already enough of a mess to dissect.
“Normally it’s great. I get to travel. I love the troupe. I’m always seeing new places. Meeting new people. But I guess it’s not so great when something like this happens,” she says as she gestures to her leg.
“Does stuff like that happen often?”
“No. Not to me.”
“What about stuff like Matt Cranwell?”
Everything in the room goes still.
I feel like I’d be able to sense our heartbeats in the air if I reached out with my palm. Rose says nothing. Doesn’t even blink. I can’t read much from her expression, but part of me already wants to rewind time and reel those words back into my mouth. I don’t know this woman. Whatever happened is none of my business, whether she’s staying here or not. Prying into her life is unfair. I’ve offered my home, without anything in return. Not even secrets.
I’m about to apologize when Rose says, “Not exactly. No.”
My gaze lingers on her for a long moment and then I give her a nod before I focus my attention back to the blender and the smoothie. When it’s ready, I grab two glasses from the cupboard and fill them with the thick liquid, taking them to the table with a pair of metal straws. I pull the chair back from the end with the single place mat, Rose’s eyes on me through every motion.
“I’m sorry. It’s none of my business,” I say as I pass her the smoothie, though she doesn’t move or even break her gaze from mine.
“I’m staying in your house. You have a right to know the kind of person under your roof.”
“Listen,” I say, curling my hand around my glass to stop myself from touching her, the sudden impulse taking me by surprise. “I’ve had some suspicions about Cranwell. I don’t see him often but when I do, there’s something about him. An instinct I have about the kind of man he is, you know? I realize that’s not a very scientific thing for a doctor to say. I shouldn’t be telling you any of this, really.” I shake my head and lean back, studying Rose’s face. Those dark eyes. Those full lips that press tight as though fighting to hold on to whatever thoughts and worries are curling through her mind. “I just … know it. He’s a dangerous person. And if he did this to you—”
“You were right. When you asked at my RV. I’m the one who stabbed him in the eyeball,” Rose blurts out. Her eyes are enormous. So big I almost laugh. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who could express so much with just her eyes. And now, the rich shades of chocolate seem liquid with fear.
“I kind of thought so,” I reply, and impossibly, her eyes get even bigger as pink infuses her cheeks. “The essence of pina colada was a bit of a clue. But the license really sealed the deal.”
Rose swallows. Nods. But she doesn’t crack a smile despite the joke and the grin that still lingers on my lips. “I should go. I don’t want to bring trouble to your doorstep or make you uncomfortable in your own home.” When Rose clamors to lift her braced leg from the chair next to her, I grab her wrist.
“Stay. Please.”
Even her wrist is tense beneath my grip. I can feel the strain of her tendons, the hammer of her pulse against my fingertips. Every cell in Rose is ready to run, or more accurately hobble her way out of my house. And I should be letting her. If I were a better man, I would be driving her to the police station. Or at the very least, back to the creepy campground. But I have absolutely no desire to do either of those things.
Though still eyeing me with wariness, Rose settles at least a little in her chair.
I don’t let go of her when I say, “Did Matt Cranwell injure you, Rose?”
She doesn’t say the words. Only nods. Barely a perceptible admission. And that faint, simple movement is enough to set my blood aflame. The only thing anchoring me to this room and keeping me from fulfilling a sudden dark urge to strip the skin from his face is her . Her warm skin beneath my palm. Her scent lingering in the air, a faint note of cinnamon sugar and chocolate and a hint of spice.
“He didn’t see my face. I was wearing a full-face motorcycle helmet and the visor was down,” she whispers. She looks at her leg for a long moment before she returns her attention to me. “It was a baseball bat. Not a motorcycle accident.”
“He hit you ? With a fucking baseball bat?” Rose nods. “Why didn’t you call the police?”
“I didn’t want to make things even harder for his wife, Lucy,” she says with a shrug as she looks down, as though she can’t bear to maintain the thread of contact between us. “If she hasn’t called the police already, there’s a reason. Maybe she’s not ready. Or she’s afraid of the consequences.” Rose meets my eyes once more, and this time they’re fierce, lit with dark determination. “He’s hitting his wife, Doc. And I don’t regret what I did. If I could do it again, I’d make sure he never made it to the hospital in the first place.”
She says it with such absolute certainty that I don’t doubt every word is true.
My blood turns viscous, lava in my veins.
I’ve seen Lucy Cranwell only once at my clinic, when she brought one of their kids in for a chest infection six months ago. She was quiet. Shy. Polite. It wouldn’t have been a memorable encounter aside from a single comment she made as she pulled out her phone to send a text. It stuck in my brain like a barb, but at the time I didn’t know why, so I only turned it over long enough in my thoughts to dismiss it.
“I just have to text Matthew,” she’d said, darting an apologetic glance to me. “He always likes to know where I am.”
I let go of Rose’s wrist to drag my hand down my face.
My focus slides to the door of my house and sticks there. It’s begging me to walk through it. To get in my truck and drive. To not stop until I’m at Cranwell’s house. And after that …?
I shut off those thoughts before I can fall into madness. They’re vines that will twist and turn and trap me in a dangerous life I can’t escape. I’ve seen it happen. It’s in my brothers, Lachlan and Rowan. I’ve felt those same urges constrict around me. But I’ve learned to put those desires into a box where they will wither, forgotten. Starved of light.
“He might not have seen me,” Rose says, pulling me back to the present, “but how many women show up randomly in a small town with a busted-up leg? It won’t take him long to find me, if he wants to. I really do appreciate your offer to bring me here, but I probably shouldn’t have accepted. I really don’t want you to be in harm’s way. You’ve done so much for me already. We haven’t even talked about the break-in or the mess I made at your clinic.”
Rose’s expression is sheepish but there’s something mischievous about it too, as though she might enjoy leaving a little chaos in her wake.
“To be honest, I was relieved it wasn’t the raccoon again. Do you know how hard it is to get a codeine-addicted raccoon out of a ventilation system? Fucking hard.”
Rose’s expression brightens. “I kind of wouldn’t mind watching Dr. McSpicy rolling up his sleeves and getting into fisticuffs with a crazed trash panda.”
“ Fisticuffs .” I snort. “Well, chances are you will. It happens more often than it should.” The light that seems to linger in Rose’s eyes starts to dim. When she glances toward the door, I lay my hand on hers despite the voice in my head that tells me not to. “Listen. Cranwell lives outside the next town over.” So what? It’s fifteen minutes away. And you’ve already told her this. “He hardly comes here.” It’s not like you keep tabs on him, dumbass. “Doesn’t have many friends.” No fucking idea how many friends he has. Could be friends with the whole fucking county for all I know. I take a deep breath that fills every crevice in my lungs. “Please just stay. I promise I’ll bring you to the clinic so you can watch me get my ass handed to me the next time the trash panda infiltrates the fortress. I’ll be worried about you with the corn children if you go back.”
Rose says nothing, just keeps her eyes locked on mine as she leans forward and wraps her lips around the straw. For a brief moment, fantasies about those plush lips flash through my mind, but they’re cut short when she takes her first sip of the smoothie, and her expression transforms to one of thinly veiled disgust.
“And I’ll maybe stay away from the green smoothies,” I say with a grin as she slides the glass in my direction. I could tease her for the abashed look she gives me, but instead I take the glass to the kitchen and return to offer her my hand. “Come on, I’ll show you your room.”
She looks at my palm as though trying to work out a mystery, and it takes her a long moment to slide her hand onto mine, watching it as she does, as though this small action is a revelation. When she stands, I help take her weight until she’s balanced and ready for her crutches, and then she follows me down the hallway.
“I figured this one would be better,” I say as we stop outside the second of two guest rooms and I push the door open. “The other one has an en suite but it’s narrow. This way, you can have the main bathroom to yourself and this tub is a little lower so will be easier for you to manage. I’ll be right across the hall if you need anything. Is that okay?”
Rose swings her way into the bedroom. Her gaze pans across the details, everything bland and in monochrome. Everything except the new floral bedspread in shades of coral pink and cornflower blue, two deep yellow pillows leaning against the wrought-iron headboard. Her gaze lingers on the bed. Maybe she sees the fold lines still pressed into the fabric from when I bought it just this morning. Maybe she realizes I bought it just for her, in the hopes she might agree to stay.
Rose turns her smile toward me. The warmth of it hits me like a dart to the chest.
“Yeah,” she finally says. “I think that’s okay.”