Page 175 of Before We Were

"Nate," I correct him. "Just Nate."

He nods, something softening in his expression. "Nate, I wanted to see you before your mother comes back. You're over eighteen now, so this information can be shared with just you."

He starts examining the x-rays, but I already know what's coming. I can read it in the careful way he chooses his words, in the gentle tone that speaks of years of delivering bad news.

"Your wrist is fractured, so are two of your fingers, and there's definitely a significant concussion." He pauses, eyes meeting mine. "But from your x-rays, I noticed something else."

My throat closes, the air suddenly too thick to breathe.

"You've got older injuries—breaks and contusions—that didn't heal properly. It looks like they've been re-injured multiple times. In fact, that wrist looks like it's already had fresh fractures only weeks old." The weight of his gaze feels like another bruise forming. "I need to ask this," he says, voice gentle but firm. "Is someone hurting you repeatedly?"

The question hits like a sucker punch, but I keep my face blank. Years of practice make it easy.

"No," I say, my voice steady, rehearsed. "It's from football. I'm a quarterback. I've been playing for years. Injuries happen."

He doesn't look convinced. Leaning forward slightly, his voice drops lower.

"Nate, I've been a doctor for over twenty-five years. I've seen football injuries. These don't look like that."

I open my mouth to argue, to spin another lie, but the words die in my throat.

I'm so fucking tired of lying.

Dr. Colson reads my silence, sees the truth in my inability to meet his eyes.

"If you're not comfortable talking to me right now, I understand. But I urge you to find someone you trust. If things aren't safe at home, there are people who can help."

People who can help?

The bitter laugh rises in my throat, but I swallow it down. This guy clearly has no idea who my family is. The only help that's offered in my world is to clean something up or hide something, making it disappear to keep up appearances. I nod, jaw clenched so tight it sends fresh waves of pain through my skull. He watches me for another moment before leaving a card on the side table. The door clicks shut behind him with a finality that echoes in my chest.

The room feels smaller now, the walls closing in. I grab the card—a direct line to a domestic abuse hotline. I shove it in the drawer and retrieve my phone, scrolling to Nora's name. My thumb hovers over the call button, and for a moment, I let myself imagine what it would be like to tell her everything.

But I don't press it.

Instead of calling Nora, I scroll up to David's name and hit call before I can talk myself out of it. The phone rings twice, each tone stretching like years between heartbeats.

"Nate, how are you doing, kid?" His voice comes through warm and steady, so different from the cold fury I'm used to hearing directed my way.

I can't speak.

The words are trapped in my throat and I almost hang up, but then his voice comes again, calm and patient as always.

"Nate, are you okay?"

"I… I don't know anymore." My voice cracks on the last word, and I hate myself for it. Hate how weak it makes me sound. Hate how much I need someone to ask that question and actually care about the answer.

David exhales softly, like he's been waiting for this call. "Talk to me, kid. I'm here. Whatever's going on, you can talk to me, I'll listen."

His tone doesn't demand anything. Doesn't judge. It's the opposite of everything I've known, and something in my chest starts to crack.

"Where are you?" He asks with genuine concern.

"In bed."

Not a complete lie. Hospital beds still count, right?

“Nate, what happened?"

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