Page 68 of The Fed Sex Man

“Did you do well in school?”

I picked up my fork. “I did okay.”

“Did you play any sports?”

It was a question I hated to answer, because it often opened a floodgate of memories I hated to recall or admit. I opted to answer truthfully, but without giving her reason to press the issue any further.

“A little football,” I responded.

“Anything else?”

“No, just football.”

“Were you good at it?”

I wasn’t willing to travel down that particular path of memory lane with her, or anyone for that matter. Football was off-limits with me and had been for eighteen years.

I cut the corner off my lasagna and raised it to my mouth. “Not bad.”

“Not good enough to make it a career?” she asked. “Or to be a coach, or something?”

I poked the food into my mouth, and then shrugged. “Hurt my ankle.”

I chewed my food, realizing I’d opened the gate. I lowered my left hand beneath the surface of the table and crossed my fingers in hope that she’d change the subject.

“How’d you hurt it?”

There I was. Between a rock and a hard place. I realized I’d placed myself there and wondered if my subconscious mind wanted to talk to someone about it. Consciously, I had no desire to reveal that part of my life to her, or to anyone for that matter.

I tried to swallow but struggled to do so. After taking several drinks of water, I realized I was sweating profusely.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

I wiped my brow with my forearm.

I was far from okay. I pressed my fork through the edge of my lasagna and paused. After a moment, I began to shake.

I set my fork aside and wrung my hands together. I’d lived my adult life telling myself everything happened for a reason. That theory left me wondering if Jo’s presence in my life was for more than simply having sex with her.

My subconscious mind decided she was in my life for other reasons. Before I could stop my lips from moving, they were telling her what I’d shared with no one.

“I was,” I stammered. “I was in a car wreck.”

It was over. I said it. There was no reason for me to elaborate, or to explain the horrible sequence of events that transpired that night.

She would say she was sorry, and I’d shrug it off.

“Oh my gosh,” she gasped. “I’m so sorry.”

I gazed blankly at my food. “It’s okay.”

I desperately wanted to change the subject but couldn’t seem to get my mind pried away from thoughts of the horrific event that changed my life forever.

“Was anyone else hurt?” she asked.

No one else was “hurt” that night. It was much more complicated than that.

My chest felt heavy. I pressed the heel of my palm against my ribs. Much to my disappointment, the pain sharpened, as if someone had poked an ice pick into my heart. Reserving hope that telling her would provide relief, I did just that.