Page 18 of My Masked Savior
The waitress disappears, and silence settles between us. Morgan fidgets with the edge of a napkin, folding it into smaller and smaller squares.
“How was Christmas?” I lean back, casual. Nonthreatening.
“Fine. Good.” Her fingers are still on the napkin. “Awkward. You know how family is.”
“Not really.”
That gets her attention. “No family?”
“Not anymore.”
“I’m sorry.”
I wave it off. “It was a long time ago.” True enough. “What made it awkward?”
She hesitates, and I watch the debate play across her face—how much to share, how much to keep locked down.
“I haven’t been home in five years,” she admits. “My parents had questions.”
“About?”
“Work. Dating. Why do I never visit?” She looks away. “The usual.”
The waitress returns with our drinks. Morgan takes a long pull from hers immediately.
“And what did you tell them?” I sip my whiskey, letting the burn settle.
“That work keeps me busy. That I like where I am.” Her thumb traces condensation on the glass. “Lies, mostly.”
“You don’t like it?”
“I like the distance.”
There it is.
“From them?”
“From my past.”
She doesn't elaborate, and I don't push. Yet.
I let the silence stretch, nursing my whiskey while she drains half her vodka soda. The alcohol loosens her shoulders slightly, eases the rigid set of her spine.
“What about you?" She meets my eyes. “How long have you been an EMT?"
“About six years now.”
“And before that?”
I swirl the amber liquid in my glass. “Navy. Eight years as a Corpsman.”
“Why'd you get out?”
“Saw enough blood. I wanted a change of pace.”
“EMT work must have plenty of blood.”
“Different context." I lean forward, elbows on the table. “I choose who I help now.”
