Page 10 of What's Left of Us

“Why?”

I hate how narcotics make me feel. They were essential the first week after the shootout, dulling the pain that was hot and fresh as I tried to function on my own. But I didn’t like how groggy they made me when I took one, knowing the second they wore off, I’d feel everything ten times worse. I didn’t want to depend on the painkillers to get past the physical or mental pain. I wanted to remember.

Ideservedto remember everything.

I could tell her all of that. Be honest. I don’t though. “Just didn’t like them,” I murmur instead, trying not to roll my bad arm.

The physical therapy I went through for two months helped with mobility, but there’s still a lingering pain that tugs on the muscles that were obliterated by the bullet that day. No amount of exercise, medication, or surgery is going to get me back to one hundred percent.

I have to live with that. Accept it. No matter how much it pisses me off.

Those two whispered words reappear in my head, caressing my conscience.Don’t go.

The good doctor writes something on her notepad, saying nothing as her pen drags across the paper effortlessly. I’d like to know what she’s writing about. I’m sure there are a few choice words she’s thought of in the short time we’ve spent together.

Stubborn, being one of them. Evasive is probably underlined and starred. Cynical might be on there too.

“Is there anything you’d like to talk about today in particular?” she asks, letting go of the previous conversation.

It’s how she starts most of our sessions.

To which I always reply, “No.”

She watches me, studying me with a professional amount of interest in her eyes, like she’s trying to calculate how to fix me. Wondering what magic anecdote is going to help me open up in order to heal.

I’d like to know myself.

She sets her pen down and picks a piece of invisible lint off her top. “Was your divorce amicable?”

The question catches me off guard. I suppose this is my fault for bringing up Georgia. I led her to the topic I’ve done my best to avoid talking about with most people. Then again, she’s not most people, is she? “I wouldn’t say ‘amicable’ is the right word. It took months for her to even sign the paperwork after we separated.”

“And why is that?”

Her guess is as good as mine. I’ve learned it’s damn near impossible to figure out the inner workings of Georgia Del Rossi. “Don’t know, doc. I guess she was having second thoughts. Maybe because I supported the two of us. Maybe because…”Sheloved me.I stop myself from saying that because the thought cuts deep.

“She didn’t work?”

Georgia’s father co-founded a construction business called MDR Inc. in Savannah, Georgia, where she was born. They made good money and expanded up north when his former business partner said there was good money to be made near New York City. Then, that same partner was sent to jail for tax evasion and money laundering within five years of their move to New York. Nikolas Del Rossi claimed he wasn’t involved, but not all the facts added up. He knew having me as a son-in-law would quickly uncover a hell of a lot more than he was letting on, so he needed to do something about it.

He liked control as much as I do, but he knew a lot more powerful people to ensure he’d always have the upper hand in our relationship. Looking back, I’m not sure I ever stood a chance.

“She did,” I relent, rubbing my leg. “But she could never hold one for very long under circumstances out of her control.”

Circumstances pertaining to her father.

My fingers curl into a fist and stay by my side.

“I bet that was stressful.”

We weren’t exactly eating Ramen noodles every night, but some months were harder than others. “It was,” I agree finally. I meet her eyes, trying to look unfazed as a tight ball of nerves settles into my chest cavity. “But we made it work. For a while.”

She’s quiet for a few seconds, watching me with those inquisitive eyes through the thick lenses of her glasses. “May I ask what the reason for your divorce was?”

There was a litany of reasons, but we didn’t have time for me to list them all. “I suppose the short answer is that we grew apart and wanted different things.”

I’ve seen it happen more times than I could count. In law enforcement, the divorce rate is almost seventy percent. That’s twenty percent higher than the average. It’s hard being married to an officer, especially one as stubborn as me, who wants to change the world.

Georgia never understood it was all for her.

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