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“Dad had twenty-two broken bones between the ages of two and sixteen.”
David made a sound like he’d been punched.
Inger whispered, “Oh my Lord.”
Oskar grunted, “Fucking hell.”
He barely noticed all of this.
He was focused on the tears filling Elsa’s eyes.
“He’d also had nine concussions,” Hale carried on. “Or at least there were nine that were diagnosed by medical personnel. Before he died, he packed a box specifically for me. You know we had issues in our relationship when he was alive. I thought he was playing mind games with me. I didn’t open it. Tom and Genny were so pissed I did what I did to you, knowing I was hung up on my issues about my dad, they made me open it. His medical records were inside.” He took in another breath and let it out, finishing, “In other words, I know now why he didn’t touch me.”
“Hale—” Elsa started shakily.
“I have more, please, sweetheart, let me get it out,” he requested quietly.
She nodded.
“He hurt my mom. They were separated before I was born and divorced long before I could form coherent thought. You know what he did to her. Everyone does. She hated him for it, and by association, I think she hated me. I didn’t want to do that to a woman, Elsa. I didn’t want to hurt her so badly, she’d live her life mired in that pain, not able to get out. I forgot.”
When he didn’t say anything else, she asked, “You forgot what?”
“The conversation when I was twelve. Dad giving me advice on women. He told me not to find a woman whose life revolved around me. He told me to find a Genny. I forgot what he said, but I did what he told me to do. I found a Genny.”
Inger emitted a subdued sob.
David said, “Come on, Oskar. Inside. Let’s give them some room.”
Again, Hale barely noticed this.
Because, as her family vacated the stoop, Elsa moved to sit on the top step.
He heard the door close as he sat down beside her, near, but not touching her.
She was staring at the street, the tears still shining in her eyes, but they didn’t fall down her cheeks.
He was staring at her.
“I hate I hurt you. I fuckinghatehow I hurt you, baby,” he said vehemently. “But I saw you in that bathroom, bloody and pale and looking terrified, trying to be brave, and it was my shit that put you there—”
“It wasn’t your shit, Hale,” she said to the street.
“No, but it felt like it.”
“Yeah,” she murmured.
“I spent this morning with Tom, Genny and Duncan, talking to my dad’s neurologist in LA.”
She turned to him.
Seeing her face, so close, God, he needed to touch her, kiss her, hold her,absorb her.
He couldn’t live without those blue eyes.
How could he think he could live without those eyes?
Fuck.
