Page 22 of Open Secrets
“Morning,” I answer, taking the files. Decisions come easy here. Assess, decide, move. No hesitation.
Later, a staff sergeant corners me about training schedules, another about leave requests. I answer without missing a beat, watching the tension drain from their faces once I’ve handed down the call. It’s competence, control, the kind that feeds me like oxygen.
Then one of the younger guys, Zed, asks about Maria. About the kids. His voice is casual, curious, maybe even respectful. I give him a half-smile, a quick “They’re good,” and leave it there. Because that’s what the Captain mask is for: to keep the real cracks out of sight.
Here, I’m unshakable. Here, I give orders and people follow them. At home, every word I say feels like it makes things worse.
This is the moment where most men would talk to a friend, let some of it bleed out before it rots inside. But I don’t have friends anymore. Not really. I have colleagues. Soldiers who look at me like a leader, not a man.
I used to. Back when I was just another kid in uniform. But the day I pinned captain’s bars, politics won. Distance settled in. Everyone became either above me or under me, and no one beside me.
For a split second, I consider calling Markus. Old habits. But then I think of his wreck of a divorce, the bitterness in his voice, the shit he threw at me and Maria. No. That line is burned.
So, I keep moving, file under my arm, mask nailed in place. Captain Connelly. Steady. Reliable. Respected.
Even if at home, I’m none of those things.
Chapter Seven
Maria — Present
Therapy. He wants to go to therapy.
Like talking to a shrink about my problems is going to magically fix them. Like sitting in a room with some stranger while I spill my guts is going to erase years of resentment, fear, and exhaustion.
I know exactly what Lyle’s thinking. He’ll use the therapist as proof he’s trying, as if showing up with his Captain face on will make me believe things are going to change—while nothing actually does. He’s so predictable it hurts.
I push the thought down as I pull into the clinic lot. By the time I get out of the car and walk through those glass doors, I’ve already tucked Maria the wife and Maria the mother away. Here, I’m Dr. Connelly. Not someone’s long-suffering partner, not the woman who fell in love with a soldier and built her whole damn life around his schedule. Here, I’m me.
A doctor. A professional. Someone respected.
I’m not crazy. I know dentists don’t exactly save lives—not in the heart-thumping, ER-drama sense. But we change them. From kids with crooked teeth to wives with spineless husbands. From nervous teenagers too embarrassed to smile to hardened men grinding down molars from stress.
And addicts. Meth mouths. Those were always the hardest to stomach and, strangely, the most satisfying. Teeth rotted tonubs, gums bleeding, whole faces collapsed from neglect. Fixing them was like giving someone a second chance. I’ve seen the before-and-afters. It matters.
Back when money was tight, I used to work part-time at the state prison. Hours were brutal, pay was adequate, but the need was there. Prisoners came in with mouths so wrecked you could barely look without wincing. I treated them anyway. I had a lot of jobs then. Dentist. Mom. Nurse. Caretaker. Juggler of every ball Lyle wasn’t home to catch.
And I did it. Somehow, I always did it.
That’s the thing Lyle doesn’t see: therapy isn’t going to teach me how to hold the world on my shoulders. I’ve been doing that all along.
The receptionist looks up when I walk in, relief flashing in her eyes like always. “Morning, Dr. Connelly. Your first patient’s already in the chair. Nine-year-old. Mom says he hasn’t slept in two nights.”
I nod, setting my bag down, gloves already in hand. The boy squirms in the chair, clutching the armrests like they’re lifelines. His mom hovers in the corner, nerves written across her face.
“Hey, buddy,” I say, keeping my voice warm but steady. “I’m Dr. Connelly. Wanna tell me what’s been bothering you?”
He shakes his head, lips pressed tight.
“That’s alright. You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.” I crouch beside him, not too close. “But I’ll let you in on a secret. I don’t just fix teeth. I fix pain. And I bet you’re hurting.”
His eyes flick to me, wary but curious. After a moment, he nods.
I smile, pulling the overhead light down. “Good. Then let’s see what we’re working with.”
It’s a cavity, bad enough that I’m surprised he lasted two nights. The kind that makes grown men cry, let alone a kid. But it’s fixable. Always fixable.
As I work, the boy’s shoulders slowly loosen. His mom lets out a breath she probably didn’t know she was holding. I talk them both through it—every step, every sound, every sensation.
