Page 22 of Obeying

The restaurant keeps going around us, the clinking of cutlery on plates, the hum of conversations, the occasional laughter. Normal stuff. And then there's us. She's got her hands in her lap and she's not looking at me anymore. I can tell this is the most she's told anyone in a long time. Maybe ever.

I don't take that lightly. She didn't have to tell me any of this. She chose to, and I know how much that cost her.

But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't worried. Because everything she just described is not a messy breakup. It's something else. And it scares me, but I'm not going to show her that, because she doesn't need me to make it worse.

She gave me what she could tonight, and I'm not going to take more than she's offering.

"You don't have to tell me everything," I say. "Not now. Not until you're ready. If that's ever."

She nods, and her shoulders drop half an inch. Her hands uncurl on the table. Small things. Easy to miss if you aren’t paying attention, but I was already watching for them.

The check comes and she grabs it before I can. "I pepper-sprayed you. I told you, my treat. I'm not going back on it and don't even dare argue with me right now."

"Fine."

I offer to drive her home. She says the bus is fine, but I tell her it's dark and late. She accepts. I think she's too tired to fight me on it, and honestly, after tonight, I wouldn't let her win that one anyway.

The car is quiet for the first few minutes. She's looking out the window, and I can see her reflection in the glass. I don't know what she's thinking, but her face is still.

"Thank you," she says without turning from the window. "For listening. I don't really talk about this stuff."

"I figured."

"And for not making it weird."

"When have I ever made anything weird?"

She turns and gives me a look. The flat, unimpressed Kristen Portland look. "Do you want a list?"

"Not particularly."

She shakes her head, but she's smiling a little. She turns back to the window, and we drive the rest of the way in a silence that doesn't need filling.

"It's this one. On the left."

I pull up to a small house on a quiet street. The porch light is on, and the yard is tidy. We've been driving for a while.

"You live pretty far from the hospital," I say.

"Yeah. It's my dad's old place. I needed somewhere to go when I left, and it was the only thing I had." She unbuckles her seatbelt. "It's not much, but it's mine."

She opens the car door and pauses. "Thank you for the ride, and for not filing an assault charge."

"The night's still young."

She shakes her head. "Goodnight, Maxwell."

"Goodnight, Portland. Get some rest."

She gets out and walks up the front steps. At the door, she turns back. Just a quick glance, like she's checking I'm still there.

I wait until she gets in, then I pull away.

I drive home slowly. The streets are mostly empty, my eyes still sting, and I'm thinking about Kristen, who lost her father, her career, and years of her life and still made her way back into a surgical residency.

But I keep coming back to the elevator. To the way she pressed herself into the corner, the full-body flinch when I touched her arm, her hands coming up like she was bracing for a hit.

The question sat on the tip of my tongue the whole drive.