Page 73 of From Air

“You think you know me, but you don’t. I’m not an open book. I willneverbe an open book. Not for you. Not for Will or Maren. Not for anyone.”

No tears escape, but I see them in her reddening eyes while she grits her teeth. And I’m sorry, really fucking sorry, but I won’t mince words. I can’t let her think some door to my past has been cracked open when it hasn’t.

“I’m not trying to be cruel. I’m being direct and honest.” I grip my coffee tighter and slip my other hand into my pocket to keep from touching her.

She swallows hard. “You said I’m your person. Your best person. You said I’m yours.”

“You are.”

Her whole body deflates.

“So you can imagine how personal and completely off limits this part of my life is when I won’t share it with my best person, when I would tell my best person to get rid of a child if something like that happened. I will not let my existence, or lack thereof, be a significantpart of another human’s life.” I glance out the window to ensure Maren and Will don’t sneak in on us.

“What are you afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid of anything.” I sip more coffee and set the mug on the counter.

“Then you have no reason to keep things from your friends.”

“I’m not afraid. I simply don’t want to share. Fear implies I feel threatened by the possible consequences. I don’t. I just don’t want to share. It’s that simple. What areyouafraid of?”

Her head jerks backward. “Nothing. Why would I be afraid of something? We’re talking about you.”

“No. We’re talking aboutyourneed to know my business. Why are you afraid of not knowing?”

“You’re deflecting, Fitz.”

“You’re prying.”

“I’m not prying. You brought it up.”

“You asked Will behind my back.”

“You put your dick in me!” She stabs her hands into her hair. “And I’m not pregnant, but I could have been. And I wouldn’t ‘get rid’ of it. I’d want your blood type, medical history, and every goddamn branch of your family tree. But all I need right now is not to see you. So fight your fucking fires. Go live your pathetically lonely life. I’m out of here in eight weeks. So, do me a favor. Don’t talk to me. Don’t look at me. Pretend I’m dead to you like you pretend everyone else is dead to you.” She spins away from me and stomps toward the back door.

I grab her arm and drag her into the laundry room, shutting the door behind us.

“What are you doing?” Wriggling her whole body, she tries to escape my hold. “Stop manhandling me!” She flails, breaking free and pounding her fists into my chest. “You’re a stubborn bully, Calvin Fitzgerald!” She lifts her chin and scowls before kicking my shin.

I wince.

She’s. Fucking. Killing. Me.

I want to tell her, so she can fix the broken pieces of my life. That’s what she does; she makes everything better. But not this. She won’t understand my grief, my fears, my need to control what’s left of my life.

When she reaches for the door handle, I hug her back to my chest, pinning her arms to her side. With my lips at her ear, I whisper, “I don’t pretend they’re dead. They are dead. They’realldead.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

JAYMES

My anger dies.

Psych nurses are practicalandempathetic. We feel deeply for the people in our care. Yet, we can make grounded decisions.

With him, I’m anything but grounded.

Fitz’s chilling confession slays me. I think those words will haunt me forever.

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