Page 102 of The Clinch
I step out from behind the desk and keep my posture soft while my presence stays steady. “Hi. I’m Liz. Come with me.”
In the curtained room, the fluorescent light makes her look washed out, almost unreal. She keeps her arms folded across her chest.
“What happened?”
She stares at the curtain. Then, “I fell.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
“Where does it hurt?”
She points to her ribs without looking at me.
I take vitals. She flinches when the cuff inflates. When she shifts, I catch the bruise creeping above her collar and the swelling at her cheekbone.
I’ve seen this a hundred times. Every nurse has.
I keep my tone even. “I’m going to ask you something. You don’t have to answer.”
She reacts before she can hide it.
“Do you feel safe at home?”
“Yes.” It comes too fast. But her fingers dig into her own arms like she’s trying to hold herself together.
I don’t challenge her. If I push, she’ll bolt.
“We can do X-rays. Manage your pain. And if you want, we can have social work talk through options.”
“Will they call the police?” Her voice is barely a whisper.
“No. Not unless you want that.”
For one second, she stops holding herself quite so hard.
I stand with her a moment longer than I need to. The room is very quiet. She’s still holding herself, wrists crossed, fingers pressing in. I know that shape. The careful containment of it. The way it looks like composure from the outside.
When I step out, Marco is waiting. “Domestic violence,” he says quietly.
“Yeah.”
A name flashes through my mind.Travis. Like a sour taste I can’t spit out. The way charm turns into control. The way you start managing your own breathing to keep the peace.
I shut it down hard.
Leo isn’t him. I know that.
But knowing it and trusting it aren’t the same thing yet.
At noon, I finally get a real lull. I sit in the break room with my phone, thumb hovering over his name.
Text him first, I tell myself.
It’s small. It’s stupid.
It’s proof I’m not running.
