Chapter 2 — Natalie #3
"Yeah. I had my hands inside his chest trying to compress his heart manually when it just... stopped. Nothing I did made any difference in the end. I executed the protocol perfectly and he died anyway."
I don't offer empty comfort. Don't tell him it wasn't his fault. Just listen, because that's what he did for me.
"But that's not the part that stays with me," he says.
"The part that stays is that Danny didn't want to be in that vehicle.
I heard him talking to his buddy the night before, said he had a bad feeling about the route.
But when his CO told him to mount up, he mounted up.
Because that's what you do. You follow orders.
You do what you're told. And it got him killed. "
"So, when you ask me what I want instead of telling me what I should do..." I'm working it through.
"Yeah. I can't save everyone. Can't fix everything. I couldn't fix Danny. But I can ask the question. Can give people the chance to actually choose for themselves instead of just following someone else's script and hoping it works out."
"Even strangers on the side of the road."
"Especially strangers on the side of the road who look like they just made the hardest choice of their life."
I reach across the table without thinking about it. Put my hand over his, and he doesn't pull away. We sit like that for a moment. Both of us carrying things we can't put down but can maybe share the weight of.
After a long moment, I squeeze his hand once and pull back.
I take another bite and wonder if I should fill the silence with something. Some explanation. Some version of my story that makes sense.
"What's your name?" I ask instead.
"Tate."
"I'm Natalie."
He nods like he already assumed I had a name but appreciates the confirmation.
"What do you do?" I ask. "I mean, besides..." I gesture vaguely at his shirt where the wound is underneath.
"I work part-time at a bike shop in town. Rest of the time I'm with the club."
"The motorcycle club?"
"Yeah."
"Isn’t that dangerous?"
He looks at me for a moment before answering.
"Sometimes."
"Is today's wound from that?" I ask.
"Yeah."
"Does that happen a lot?"
"More than I'd like. Less than it used to."
I finish the sandwich. He takes both plates to the sink.
I watch his back while he washes them.
He turns around, leaning against the counter.
We look at each other across the kitchen.
The charge is still there. Has been there since the bathroom. Maybe since the bike. Building with every minute we're in the same space.
"What's your plan?" he asks.
"I don't have one."
"Where were you going when the car died?"
"I don't know. I wasn't going anywhere specific. I was just driving."
"You got anyone you need to call?"
The question makes my stomach drop.
"My phone's in my car," I remember. "But no. I mean, yes, there are people I should probably call. My parents. My..." I can't say fiancé. "Tyler. The man I was supposed to marry. But I don't want to."
"Then don't."
Like it's that simple.
Well, maybe it is that simple.
"I should probably figure out what to do about my car," I say.
"We can deal with that tomorrow."
Tomorrow. The word implies I'm staying. That this isn't just a ride to his house and then figuring out next steps.
"I don't want to impose," I say automatically.
The words come out before I think about them. Years of making sure I'm not inconveniencing anyone.
"You're not," he says.
"I'm a stranger sitting in your living room in a dirty wedding dress. I'm definitely imposing."
"If you were imposing, I'd tell you."
The way he says it. Matter-of-fact. Like he actually would just tell me if I was a problem.
"Okay," I say.
"You can take the bed," he says. "I'll take the couch."
"You're injured."
"I've slept on worse than a couch with worse than this." He gestures to his ribs.
"I don't want to kick you out of your own bed."
"You're not kicking me out, I'm offering."
We look at each other for a beat again.
"Okay," I say finally. "Thank you."
He nods. "Come on."
I follow him down the hallway.
He opens the door to the bedroom. Plain like everything else, bed made with corners so sharp they look painful, dresser with nothing on top, window with plain curtains.
He opens a drawer. Pulls out sweatpants and a t-shirt. Hands them to me.
Our hands touch when I take the clothes.
The contact lasts maybe half a second but I feel it everywhere.
He pulls his hand back.
"Towels are in the closet if you want to shower." he says.
"Thank you."
He nods, looks at me for another moment, then leaves.
I stand in the middle of his bedroom holding his clothes.
Trying to remember how to breathe normally.
Trying to process what I'm feeling, which is want so intense it's making my hands shake.
I sit on the edge of his bed. The wedding dress spreads around me like evidence of a crime I committed.
I'm sitting in a stranger's bedroom wearing a dress that cost more than my first car, and I feel more awake than I have in years.
I don't know what happens tomorrow.
For the first time in my life, I'm okay with that.