Together.

I’d just begun to tell her about my past.  That I grew up in a small East coast town, how I didn’t have any of my own family left.  How I fell in love with a girl at the tender age of sixteen, and her family adopted me as if I were their own.  Moments away from revealing my deepest, darkest secret and the seed of the guilt I’ve harbored for over two years.  How I’m the reason for Harper’s death.

“She was…,” God, it never gets easier to relive the past.  I clear my throat and start again.  “She was so smart.  And beautiful.  We started out as friends in high school.  I grew up in foster care, but that didn’t matter to her.  She came from the perfect home.  Loving parents and an older brother who’d do anything to protect her.”

“Did you love her?”  Tatum quietly draws along my stomach beneath my shirt while we talk.  Her touch is soothing, and I don’t sense any trepidation in her questions.  She’s openly curious, but not in a disdainful way.  It feels as though she’s trying to soak up everything about me.

“I did.  We got engaged during our second year of college.  She knew I always wanted to be a teacher, so she went to college with me to keep me motivated.  She was majoring in psychology.  I questioned myself a lot back then.  I didn’t know if I could go through with it.  I didn’t have the confidence.  But I’ve always had this passion for kids.  For wanting to make a difference in their lives and help the ones who grew up in broken homes like I did.  So she stuck by me and pushed me when I felt like I couldn’t take one more step.”

“What happened?” She asks quietly, sensing we’re coming to the tragic part of the story.  And it was tragic.  For Harper and for me.  Nobody’s life should be cut short so suddenly.

As soon as the question leaves her lips, I’m thrust back in time.

“Jacoby Ryan?”

Her dull hollow voice floated across the silent expanse of the too bright waiting room as the nurse’s eyes flitted from face to face.  My breath caught at the lack of emotion in her tired features—graying hair hung limply from a bun, smudged make up beneath her hardened brown eyes, pale mouth with lips turned down in the corners.  I bet she was pretty once, with kind eyes and smile lines instead of the wrinkles that now encased that blank stare.  I wiped my sweaty palms against my pant legs, taking just enough time to compose myself. 

I cleared my throat, trying to sound more together than I felt inside.  “Yes.  That’s—I’m Jacoby.”  It was hard not to miss the way she scanned me from head to toe, surely taking in the ragged tiredness of my jeans, ripped and dirty from the mud, all the way to my bloody shirt.  I didn’t give a fuck about the way I looked. 

“This way, please.”  She turned without making sure I followed.  Of course, I followed like a damn eager puppy dog, but her lack of friendliness was starting to bother me.  This woman was either leading me to hear the best possible news or the worst fucking news of my life, and she couldn’t seem to get it together enough to show me some compassion. 

She led me down the hallway with white tiled floors and green painted walls, overly bright with fluorescent lighting, and smelled that awful, stomach churning smell of bleach and death.  No.  I couldn’t—wouldn’t—think of death, because she’s not dead.  She was alive and someone was going to take me to her.  My stomach rolled, and a light sweat coated my forehead, dizziness erupted from somewhere deep within me so suddenly, I clutched the wall for support.  My lungs were fighting to expand against the crushing force within my chest, and I fought it down, forcing myself to breathe deeply against the pain.  She was going to be okay.  She was fine.  They fixed her.  This became my mantra. 

“Mr. Ryan?  Are you alright?  Please, step in here,” the nurse said, gesturing to the next room on my right.  Her mask of indifference finally slipped into one of compassion—wait, was that sympathy?  No.  I mentally shook myself, no. 

“I’m fine,” I replied, as she started reaching for me.  Pushing myself off the wall, the only crutch I had, I followed her into the room. 

The room was small with space for only a mahogany desk and two padded chairs.  The walls were painted an obnoxiously bright shade of yellow, and a framed painting of a colorful meadow adorned the wall above the desk.  A row of floor to ceiling windows were behind the seating, but the blinds were closed.  Which fucking sucked because I needed something to focus on besides the crappy painting. 

“Have a seat Mr. Ryan.  The surgeon will be in briefly to speak with you.” 

I stood frozen, watching her examine me, probably weighing if she should leave me alone after my episode in the hallway.  She must have convinced herself I’d be fine, because she turned towards the door and began walking past me. 

“Wait!  Please, wait,” I called out abruptly, surprising myself as much as her.  She turned slowly to face me, her careful mask was still firmly in place, no sign of the emotion she revealed in the hallway.  “Is she,” I started but my throat clogged up.  “Is she okay?” I tried again, desperate for something, to not be left alone with my own racing thoughts again.  This was it.  The clock was ticking down, and I was about to know if my life was going to be okay, or if my life was going to end.  And as much as I needed to know the answer, I dreaded the answer.  As much as I wanted to know right then, I wanted to stop time and never know.  I didn’t want to live this.  This was not supposed to be my life.  I looked that nurse directly in the eyes, my own eyes implored her to answer me.  She shook her head slowly.

“You need to wait for the doctor to speak with you.  I’m sorry, but I don’t know anything.”  She reached out, giving my shoulder a gentle squeeze, and to my shame, my eyes welled with tears.  “Do you need me to wait with you?”  She asked in a soft voice I hadn’t yet heard her use.

My breath came out in an unintentional huff.  Fucking tears.  “No.  Thank you.”  I willed myself not to cry, not yet anyway.  Not until I was alone. 

I turned my back to her hoping she took that as a cue to leave. 

As soon as the door clicked shut behind me, I took off like an animal in captivity.  I paced that tiny fucking room over and over, back and forth.  I sat down for what felt like minutes, when really only seconds had passed, and I jumped back up again, not content to sit and wait.  I walked to the windows, peaked out beneath the shades to the view of downtown stories below me.  I’d been there all night; it was early morning, and people were bustling about on their way to work.  Work.  What a joke.  I don’t think I’d ever work again after this.  Just days away from finishing a teaching degree, a degree she helped me work through.  What was the point?  If she’s, fuck, if she’s gone, there won’t be a point.  My life would be meaningless. 

I gazed down at the street below, the people nothing but colorless specks, wondering what it would feel like to jump.  To freefall, flying towards the ground from a dizzying height, letting go of fear.  Of everything.  I’d never been much of a hopeful person, and right then, I was feeling pretty fucking hopeless.  I wanted her to recover.  God, I needed her to recover.  But I saw the blood.  I saw her lying there, a broken mess of limbs.  She looked like a fallen angel—broken—yet, still so amazingly beautiful. 

The familiar click of the door startled me, and I snapped the shade back as if I had been caught doing something I shouldn’t.  They wouldn’t know the disturbing direction of my thoughts. 

A tall man walked in, his hair covered by a surgical net, wearing what I assumed to be fresh scrubs.  At least he had the decency to change his fucking clothes.  There was no way he worked on her and came out blood free.  I was going to be sick.