Page 50 of Tangled Up

“It can be really ugly, too.” Her voice is quiet.

“Just like everywhere.”

She fiddles with the stem of her wine glass. “You finished medical school fast.”

“I was accepted into an accelerated bachelor’s-MD program. I finished my degree in three years, took the MCAT, and went straight to UCF medical.” My eyes fall to the empty tumbler. “Of course, my dad helped speed the process.”

One of the few things he did to help me. Naturally, it involved a demonstration of his importance on the hospital board.

“But you didn’t become a surgeon.”

“He was very pleased with that decision.”

It’s a sarcastic comment, and her smile is tight. We’ve managed to break the tension, but I can’t help feeling like we’re dancing around landmines.

“He was a hard man,” she notes.

“Hard on the bottle. Then hard on me.”

Curious eyes blink up to mine. “What made you decide to work in geriatrics?”

I shrug. “I like old people.” She squints like she doesn’t believe me. “I’m serious. They’re funny, straight shooters. They don’t like bullshit, and I don’t know. I feel like they give me something I never had.”

“Grandparents?”

The house music launches into “Fly Me to the Moon,” and our waitress appears with our wine and a busboy carrying a tray.

“The soave you ordered, sir.” She quickly scrapes off the foil, twists out the cork, then pours a small sip into a glass. “Here you go.”

I approve the dry white wine, and we’re each poured full glasses as her helper sets our plates in front of us.

“The Mediterranean salad with shrimp for the lady, and the tuna special for the gentleman, rare. Can I get you anything else? Cracked pepper? Parmesan?”

“This will do for now, thanks.” I glance up at her, ready for her to go.

“Enjoy.” She holds out her hands and walks away.

Carly picks up her fork and spears a shrimp and several leaves of lettuce, putting them in her mouth. I’m not particularly hungry, but I slice off a layer of perfectly cut tuna. It’s fresh as the ocean and tangy from the lemon juice.

Reaching for a glass of wine, I catch Carly’s eye and smile. Her eyes flutter away, and I wonder if she still feels half as much as I do. When we were young, she said I gave her butterflies. Does she have butterflies now?

I want to touch her so badly, but I clear my throat instead. “Tell me about your work. What made you choose criminal psychology?”

“Well…” She sits back in her chair, holding her glass. “I wanted to stay in criminal justice. It felt like the best way to keep working for change. The woman I took over for was very good at her job, and she taught me to see the suspects as people who needed help, not monsters. She taught me not to be afraid.”

Her voice is strong, and I’m unexpectedly proud of her. She’s always been beautiful, sassy, and smart. Now she’s a warrior.

“Do you have any scary cases?”

“They’re not scary if I’m not afraid.” She puts her glass down and picks up her fork.

Her words are brave, but I catch the slightest waver in her tone. It makes me wonder if she’s hiding something.

“Sorry, let me rephrase that. Anything interesting? Tell me about the last case you handled.”

She chews her lip, glancing out the window in the direction of the shore. “It was a child neglect case.” She hesitates, lifting her wine glass again. “A woman left her four-year-old and six-month-old home alone for more than twenty-four hours. The neighbor investigated when the baby kept crying and found them.”

“Shit.” Anger tightens my throat. “Drug addict?”

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