For the first time since James had known her, she’d raised her voice. She was yelling now, those blotches on her face standing out in relief against the bone-white paleness of her skin.
“So, yes, I hear you saying that innocent babies born with health conditions shouldn’t die, and their families shouldn’t go bankrupt. How generous of you.” Her trembling lip curled. “But what about people like me? I’m not innocent. I’m a flawed human being, and I’ve made some bad decisions. Does that mean I no longer have value to you or to our society? Does being fat and a former smoker mean I deserve to d—”
Her chest hitched, and he brought their twined hands to his cheek, desperate to provide some sort of silent comfort.
After a moment, she continued. “Does that mean I deserve to die? Does that mean I deserve to spend weeks or months awake in bed, wondering whether I have a tumor growing from something treatable to something that will cause me a slow, agonizing d-death?” She was sobbing between every word now. “You need to think hard, Congressman Brindle. About people like me. About what you believe. About whether your conscience will allow you to bankrupt and kill an untold number of Americans in the name of the free market and deficit reduction, even as you increase military spending and cut taxes for the wealthy.”
The congressman, his brow furrowed, had extended a hand to her. “Ms. Stone, I’m so sorry that your—”
“No.” She cut him off without hesitation. “You’ve gone on record as supporting every one of your party’s failed healthcare bills. So I don’t want your sympathy. I want your vote. A no on every cruel healthcare plan your Republican colleagues propose. A yes on universal healthcare. If you can’t give me both, save your prayers and platitudes for someone who can afford them. And that’s all I have to say.”
The crowd erupted into whistles and applause, drowning out Brindle’s attempted reply.
Elizabeth wasn’t even paying attention to the congressman anymore. Instead, she lowered her chin to look at James. “Can we go now?”
Her nose was red and running, her eyes swollen. But her shoulders were straight, no hint of apology evident on her face. The local news stations’ cameras were trained on her, but she wasn’t flinching away from them or hiding herself.
She wasn’t just kind and pleasant and smart. She was fucking phenomenal. A powerhouse of a woman, even in the midst of such pain and fear.
Why hadn’t he seen it before?
He stood. “I’ll drive us home. We can get your car later.”
Without another word, she slung her purse over her shoulder and headed for the exit, James in tow. At her sudden movement, the SWAT guys headed in her direction, but they stood down when they saw she was leaving.
And as James and Elizabeth walked hand-in-hand to his truck, he started formulating a plan.
Three
Halfway to the truck,Elizabeth came to a sudden halt. “Wait. I forgot your blueberry cheesecake in my car.”
To James’s relief, she sounded more like herself again, cheerful and steady. But was that reality or just an attempt to smooth over any awkwardness and shield her vulnerability?
And for God’s sake, why had she brought him yet more food when she couldn’t even afford necessary medical care?
“It’s colder than a witch’s t—” He cleared his throat. “Colder than a witch’s nose out here. Why don’t you get in the truck and I’ll grab the cheesecake for you?”
“I would, but we’re approximately two feet from my parking spot.” Faint amusement curved her wide mouth. “Didn’t you notice?”
He hadn’t, actually. He hadn’t been thinking about anything but her. Her glorious takedown of Brindle and her predicament, of course, but also the icy chill of her fingers and how much he wanted to bundle her into his truck, turn on the heated seats, and adjust the thermostat until they could roast a good-sized turkey in the cab.
He smiled back at her. “Guess not.”
Within moments, she’d produced her favorite springform pan from her old Honda’s trunk and locked the car tight, and they continued on their way.
While digging for her keys, though, she’d let go of his hand, and it felt odd without hers in it. Empty. An inexplicable reaction, since before tonight, he hadn’t held a woman’s hand in at least four years. Maybe longer, since he and Viv had abandoned hand-holding long before they divorced.
After James helped Elizabeth into the truck, he paused. “Do you want me to take you home? Or would you like to order Carmelo’s at my house?”
She had a decided soft spot for their chicken parmesan pizza, and he was prepared to employ every trick, every advantage he had to keep her with him. Because if he gave her any time to recover herself, he suspected those defenses of hers—the ones he’d just noticed—would snap into place, and she’d be back to pretending that everything was fine. That she was fine.
In thirty years, she’d never asked for help, even though she’d surely needed assistance at some point. He wanted to know why she hadn’t reached out. Why she hadn’t trusted him to care for her. But no matter her reasoning, suffering alone was no longer an acceptable alternative for her. Not now. Not given the terror he’d seen in her eyes tonight.
“Pizza sounds good.” She strapped herself in. “We can have the cheesecake for dessert.”
“Perfect.”
By the time he buckled up and backed out of the tight space, she was slumped in the seat, her eyes half-closed, and his heart ached at the exhaustion painted in blue shadows beneath her eyes. But he couldn’t let her sleep. Not until he understood the situation and whether it required immediate action.
