Page 81 of Night Shift

My heart broke for him, for the boy who had faced such a traumatic scene, for the family that had been shattered by a moment’s desperation, and for the man who carried that burden with him still.

“There’s more,” he said after a pause, his gaze drifting away as if he was peering into the dark corridors of time where those painful memories lurked. “She survived, but…she was never the same. My father became even more distant—if that was possible. And my mother, she just…drank herself into oblivion and isolated herself from us even more after the attempt. Two years later, she died from alcohol poisoning.”

The sorrow in his voice, the loss he had experienced at such a young age tore at me.

“My father…” he added, “he didn’t even act like he cared that she was gone.”

Sitting there, witnessing the unraveling of Atticus’s soul, tears pricked at the corners of my eyes—not only because of the tragedy of his mother’s life and death but because of the profound effect her actions had on Atticus and his brothers. The man before me, always so in control, the man who always had all the answers, had been shaped by these events, wounded by them in profound ways.

After listening to his story, I understood so much more about who he was, about the walls he had built and the reasons he’d built them. This was a pivotal moment because I finally understood the depth of Atticus’s emotional scars and now realized why the bond that had formed between us was so strong. It had been forged in the crucible of shared pain.

While he continued to stare at the space between his feet, he took a steadying breath, the kind that heralds the continuation of a story.

“A little more than a year after my mother passed, my father died from a widow-maker heart attack,” he said with an undercurrent of unresolved grief. “I’d just turned sixteen and suddenly found myself thrust into the role of parent for Braxton and Conan. Technically, my grandmother was our guardian and tried to help as much as she could, but she was old and frail. So it all fell on my shoulders.”

My heart ached for the young Atticus. He’d had to grow up too quickly to shoulder burdens no child should have to bear. Tears welled up in my eyes.

“Taking care of my brothers, I did the best I could. I love them more than anything, you know?” There was pride and an undeniable love in his voice. “After college, I joined the navy and trained to become a doctor. I felt guilty for leaving, but I knew I needed to make a decent living to support them.”

He scraped a hand through his hair. Although the choice he had made was an act of profound love and sacrifice, it was clear he harbored quite a lot of guilt because of it. His words painted a picture of a man who had been shaped by trauma yet was determined to forge a path of healing not only for himself but for his brothers.

I leaned back on the sofa a little, sweeping away the tears with the back of my hand before he could notice them.

“Being helpless…it terrified me. I became a doctor because I never wanted to feel that way again and wanted to make things better. I thought if I couldn’t save my mom, at least I might have a chance of saving someone else.

“I’ve never wanted to let someone in before. I guess I’ve been afraid of experiencing that abandonment all over again,” he admitted.

While he shared the pain of feeling unwanted and unloved by his own parents, it became heartbreakingly clear why he feared getting close to anyone or forming lasting attachments.

He sat back and turned to look at me. Unable to stop my tears, I kept my head down; he wasn’t the kind of man who wanted anyone’s pity. But hiding my emotions had never been my strong suit. He hooked a finger under my chin and lifted it so that I would meet his gaze.

“But you…you’re different, Samantha. You understand my pain and loss in a way no other woman ever has.”

After Atticus said this, he bit back the tears welling in his eyes, a silent testament to the years of pain he’d kept bottled up. Guilt gnawed at me for crying so profusely when he couldn’t allow himself to do so at all.

But, truth be told, he was right. I could understand him, maybe more than anyone else ever would. The parallels between our lives, the shared traumas of parental loss and neglect, connected us, gave us an unspoken understanding that went beyond words or tears.

He knew of my past, of the shadows that followed me from my own family’s history of violence and addiction. I was glad now that I’d chosen to open up to him and share my life story during our hike.

As his story had unfolded, the walls he’d meticulously built around himself began to crumble, revealing the raw, unguarded heart of a man who had carried too much for too long.

And then something shifted. Atticus, the man who had always held himself with such rigid control, broke.

In that moment, he took a leap of faith I felt certain he’d never taken before—he laid bare the full extent of his anguish, trusting me with it completely. He moved closer, wrapping me in a tight embrace, and pressed his face into the crook of my neck. His chest shook with suppressed sobs, a single sniff breaking through as he clung to the last threads of his composure. We stayed locked in that embrace for what seemed like an eternity until he finally took a deep, shaky breath. Then, with a tenderness that spoke volumes, he turned and planted a soft kiss on the tender spot beneath my ear.

He trusted me.

There on that sofa as I held him, an overwhelming sense of protectiveness overcame me. My tears flowed freely. This was about more than just sharing our past sufferings; it was a time of healing, a coming together of two souls who had weathered their storms and found solace in each other’s arms.

It was a trust I vowed to honor, to cherish, and to never take for granted. We had found something rare—a connection forged not only in shared pain but in the hope of what could be.

Chapter twenty-two

After Atticus’s heart-wrenching revelations, we took a moment to collect ourselves, letting the intensity of our conversation settle. The news playing on the TV was an easy distraction, so we sat in silence, sipping on our coffee and watching. We couldn’t dwell in that emotional space all day. So we decided we needed a change of scenery and got up from the sofa to go for a walk around the neighborhood park.

Atticus and I were running on empty as we dragged ourselves through the door. The last couple of days had been an emotional rollercoaster. I was sure I actually did look like a member of The Walking Dead at this point. When I caught a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror, I almost didn’t recognize the zombie staring back. Meanwhile, Atticus annoyingly still looked like he’d stepped out of a magazine.

We walked for a while, chatting and making our way around the corner of the park where there was a playground. There were a couple of little kids at the swingset, getting pushed by their moms while an older man tossed a frisbee for his dog. It was all so normal…except for the feeling I was being watched. I studied the edges of the park but didn’t notice anyone who was behaving unusually. Maybe I was overly tired and being paranoid.

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