Chapter 14 #3
“It was, thank God, a simple situation.” He looked down at his hands—still smeared faintly with Tad’s blood, and just visible beneath it, the white lines of an old scar on two knuckles. “And knowing what to do isn’t the same as being okay with doing it.”
She frowned, stepping closer. “What does that mean?”
He tried to smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “It means sometimes you fake steady until the shaking stops.”
He grimaced, as if he’d let slip a truth before he could reel it back. What was going on here?
“You probably saved Tad’s life, Dane.”
Dane released a mocking half-laugh. “Please, it wasn’t even close.
I just provided emergency treatment. Kept him stable.
Didn’t panic.” He stared past her at the space where the ambulance had been.
“I didn’t know if I could do this anymore.
” He released a short, humorless laugh. “Apparently, I can. So why aren’t I happy? ”
So much pain. Wren didn’t try to fill the silence, but she did reach out and touch his arm. He stepped back. Instead of allowing him the space, she closed the distance between them again, a silent demand for him to let her in.
She watched as his jaw tightened and his fingers twitched. He jammed his bunched fists into the front pockets of his jeans, and she knew he was trying to shove his rollicking emotions behind his layer of stoicism, but she sensed his armor-like calm was in danger of cracking.
She reached up and lightly touched his jaw. “So, your calm is a mask, Dane?”
He shut his eyes as though fighting some invisible force.
“Right now, to me, you feel like a raging river trying not to burst its banks,” Wren softly said, her hand lightly brushing his sleeve, keeping her voice warm but insistent. “You said that Tad’s injury was a simple situation, but you are not acting like it was. Why?”
They’d talked about his work before, but now judging by the shock in his eyes, she saw his responses for what they had been—edited stories, the full horror kept from her, and the impact it had on him hidden.
Wren knew that something had happened to him.
That something had changed him. Guilt sliced and diced.
Why hadn’t she pushed? Why had she been so content to take the snippets he gave her and think it was enough?
Her stomach knotted and twisted, the way it always did before a performance.
Only now, the risk wasn’t success or failure on a stage—it was a battle to know him, to know his heart.
Because this—this moment—felt like a watershed. She could feel it in the air, in the way the world narrowed, in the tension between them.
He could let her in, or he could keep himself locked away forever.
Wren knew that if he chose to trust her, then everything between them would change.
If he opened up, they couldn’t pretend they were simply having fun together, nor were they simply passing time.
If he talked, they’d start the process of building something real, something stable and steady, something that would help them survive whatever life threw at them in the future.
But if he retreated, if he locked that part of himself away again, then this—whatever they were—would remain surface deep.
She’d never felt this way with Alex, her heart pounding, her mouth dry, caught between fear and love.
Alex, she now knew, was an easy option. Maybe, subconsciously, she hadn’t ended things with him for a reason.
Because, as long as she kept Alex in the picture, she had the perfect excuse—if Alex was still a factor, then she couldn’t get too close to Dane.
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?