Full Throttle(77)

He stopped caressing her shoulder, lifting his chin to glance down at her. “I keep forgetting you didn’t finish medical school. Do you know what a thoracentesis is?”

“A pleural tap. Where you cut into the pleural space in the chest in order to release the air or fluid that’s building up.”

“Sí.” He nodded before dropping his head back atop his hand. “So, anyway, I grabbed my Swiss Army knife, unfolded the reamer tool from the case, found a space between the kid’s ribs, and jabbed that blade deep. I had to use somebody’s ballpoint pen casing to keep the wound open so the blood and air could continue to drain until the medics arrived.”

“And let me guess,” she finished for him. “You were steady as a rock through it all.”

“So I was told,” he said, and she could feel him shake his head. “I find that hard to believe considering I was scared shitless the entire time.”

“You?” She pushed up on her arm to stare down at him, smiling. “Scared? I don’t believe it.”

“Believe it, little neña. That was the first time I ever operated on someone outside a clinical setting and without a whole slew of experienced doctors on hand to correct my fuck-ups if I made any.”

Planting her elbow on the mat, she cupped her cheek in her hand, narrowing her eyes.

“What?” he asked, a line appearing between his dark brows. “What’s that look for? What are you thinking?”

“Do you ever regret not becoming a surgeon?” And even though she tried to keep her tone light, she held her breath for his answer.

“Nah,” he said almost instantly. She covertly blew out a relieved breath. Thank God I don’t have that to add to my guilt. “I mean, while I’m not happy why I decided to join the Army, I am happy with the life I’ve led. I’ve seen and done amazing things. I’ve been to some incredible places and have had more adventures than you can ever imagine. And there are a thousand adventures still to come.” Yes. She could see how that would appeal to someone like him. “Plus, I get to call some of the fiercest, bravest, smartest warriors on the planet my friends. All and all, I’d say that’s a pretty sweet existence.”

“You don’t know how glad I am to hear you say you feel that way,” she told him.

He cocked his chin, narrowing his eyes. “Why do I get the impression I’m missing something?”

She shook her head. Too much more of that and the terrible poker face—non-poker face?—he’d accused her of having was going to give her away. “No. It’s nothing. I’m just really happy things turned out okay for you.”

“And you, Abby?” he asked. “Are you sorry you didn’t become a doctor?” His eyes were still narrowed and speculative, like he was seeing far more than she wanted him to. Which he probably was.

She dropped her head back to his chest to avoid his penetrating black gaze. They were tap dancing—clickety-clack—all around a subject she’d decided to dodge until they got back to safety. And because of that, for a brief second she considered prevaricating. But then she thought No, I’ll be damned if I lie to him about one more thing. So, she admitted, “It’s not that I didn’t become a doctor; it’s that I couldn’t become a doctor.”

“What?” He stilled beneath her. “Why?”

“After the…” She had to lick her lips. “After the bombing, I…I couldn’t stand the sight of blood. Every time I picked up a scalpel to do a dissection, I had a panic attack or passed out. Like, blam!” She snapped her fingers as punctuation. “Seriously down for the count. My therapist diagnosed me with post-traumatic stress disorder.”

But in all honesty, she’d always figured it was more post-traumatic guilt disorder. When she saw a drop of blood, she was instantly reminded of the bombing victims and the blood that had speckled the scene that horrible day. And even now, eight years later, just talking about it had the memory threatening to overcome her. She could feel the horror of it, the terror of it wrapping a ghostly hand around her throat. And a sudden rush of sorrow filled her chest until breathing became a labor.

“Hell, Abby,” he whispered, hugging her tight. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

Oh, no. No, no, no. “Don’t you dare be sorry,” she told him fiercely. “You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for.”

And despite her best efforts, hot tears burned behind her nose. And they were the insistent kind. The persistent kind. Oh, God! I can’t stop them! It was like when she was a little girl and Veronica Wachowski pushed her down on the playground and called her a gangly, green-eyed goblin. Her whole second-grade class had been watching, and in spite of her savage desire to act tough, to act like her tailbone and her feelings weren’t hurt, she’d been unable to stop the tears that flooded her eyes.