Brian Freeman - The Burying Place

When she was done, she sat on the floor in the great space, with her back against Stride's red leather chair and her arms wrapped around her knees. Her heart raced. She swallowed hard and stared at her feet and held back her own breakdown.

'I'm really sorry.'

Maggie looked up. Stride was in the doorway leading to the bathroom. He wore the boxers and nothing else. Drops of water clung to his body, and his dark hair was wet. She rubbed her eyes and looked down at her feet again without saying anything. He padded across the carpet and slid down beside her. Their shoulders touched, and his skin was warm. He put his big arm around her and pulled her into him.

'Thank you,' he said.

She lost it. She cried into his shoulder, hating herself for letting him see her as weak and vulnerable. That wasn't who she was. She wiped her face and pulled away from him. 'You scared the shit out of me.'

'I know.'

'What happened to you? Talk to me.'

'I dropped a glass,' he said.

'Did you have a stroke? A heart attack? Should I get an ambulance over here?'

'No, it's nothing like that.'

'Then what is it?'

He hesitated. 'I don't think I can talk about it.'

She twisted her body to stare at him. Their faces were inches apart again. Her voice caught in her throat as she scolded him. 'I don't care. Talk to me.'

'Mags,' he murmured.

'I'm serious. You are not going to lock me out.'

He steepled his hands and laid his chin against his fingers. He closed his eyes. 'It's been happening for the last couple months,' he whispered.

'What?'

'Panic attacks. Flashbacks.'

'Flashbacks of what?' Maggie asked. Then she understood. 'The fall.'

He nodded. 'I drop something, anything, and it's like I'm back there. It isn't just a memory. I'm there. And it's not getting better, it's getting worse. It's driving me crazy.'

Maggie exhaled with a loud sigh. 'Have you talked to anyone?'

He shook his head. 'No.'

'You need help,' she snapped. 'Since when do you have to be Superman? Oh wait, who am I talking to? You can't lean on anyone. You always have to be strong.' She stopped and mentally cursed herself. She leaned into him and rested her forehead on his cheek. 'I'm sorry.'

'You're right,' he said.

'Is it just the flashbacks?' she asked. 'Or is there more?'

'There's more,' he admitted. 'I'm dead inside. I don't care about anything or anyone. When I was sitting in the kitchen, I wished I was dead. I mean, I really thought about—'

He stopped talking.

'Now you're scaring me,' she said.

'I wasn't going to do anything, but I thought about it.'

Maggie took his hand in hers. Their eyes met, and for the first time in their relationship, she felt as if the differences between them had melted away. There was no span of years separating them. No division of boss and partner. No history of one-sided emotions she had tried to suppress. They were on a level playing field, one man, one woman.

'You're not nuts, you know. It's normal.'

'Normal? Please.'

'If it was anyone else, you'd see it immediately. You just can't look in the mirror.'

'What are you talking about?'

'PTSD. Post-traumatic stress disorder. For God's sake, wake up, will you? Three months ago, you nearly died. You think your body can heal and that's the end of it? You've been digging a hole for yourself because you won't face it.'

He stared at the ceiling. 'It doesn’t make sense, Mags. I've been through worse shit in my life than this. Even when I lost Cindy, I still hung on to myself.'

'I was there,' she reminded him. 'You've blocked out how bad it was.'

She didn't add that she had tried to come inside with him then and share his grief and help him through it, and he had shut her out.

'I think it's worse to feel nothing,' he said. 'I'm somewhere else. Gone.'

Maggie caressed his neck with the back of her fingers. 'You're not alone.'

'I know. Thanks.'

'It's not a sin to need help.'

'Maybe, but I'm used to dealing with things on my own,' he said.

'No, you don't deal with them at all, you stubborn ass.'

His face softened. He laughed. 'I've missed you.'

'Me, too. Don't go running away again, OK?'

'Deal.'

It felt normal to continue to caress him, and she did. She saw what looked like an invitation in his eyes, and she brought her fingertips along the line of his chin and then across his lips.

'You haven't said a word, you know,' she said.

'About what?'

'About me.'

He blinked, not understanding. He stared at her until he finally saw her. Really saw her. She watched herself get inside his head. She had been standing on the outside for so long that it felt disorienting to have him look at her that way.

'Oh, my God,' he said with a smile. 'Look at your hair.'

He reached over and pushed away the bangs that fell over her eyes, and the intimacy of the gesture took her breath away.

She smiled back. Just with her lips. Teasing. 'Like it?'

He didn't have to answer. His expression said everything. She didn't know if it was gratitude or desire, but she didn't care. His hands slid around the back of her neck and pulled her toward him. Her chin lilted upward. Their breath was warm on each other's faces. Their lips moved closer, as if drawn by gravity, and came softly together. He kissed her; she kissed him back. When he pulled away, she thought in the recess of her brain, so that's that. It was over, a moment where they had danced at the edge of a dangerous line and then come to their senses, exactly as they needed to do.

But it wasn't over. The first kiss ended, and with the fragile ice breaking underneath them, they began again. Their need was ferocious and immediate. Before she knew it, the dangerous line was so far behind them that she couldn't see it any more. A voice sang in her head — mistake, mistake, mistake — but she shut the door firmly, and the voice grew faint and unimportant. They didn't think about what they were doing; they just did it. She helped him undress her, and she peeled away the silk boxers around his waist, and when they were both naked, he pressed her downward into the carpet. He loomed over her, and his arms scooped under her shoulder blades. She rose upward to meet him, clutching his face. In the next instant, as her legs spread and tightened around his back, he filled her with a single, wanton thrust.

Mistake, the voice said again.

She didn't listen. She didn't care any more. She drowned out the voice by telling him how much she wanted him. She told him to make love to her. She held on to him so tightly that her fingernails drove into his skin. She couldn't be too close, couldn't have a square inch of her body not touching him. He responded with the same intensity, making love to her with the same urgent abandon.

Somewhere, drifting outside herself, she wondered if there was a voice in his head, too, whispering that this was wrong. If so, he didn't listen either. They simply clung to each other and leaped from the bridge together, and for a time she was convinced they could fly. Even if they couldn't, it made no difference, because the water was so far below that she couldn't see it coming closer.

Serena found Regan Conrad sitting alone in the hospital cafeteria. The nurse picked at a green salad and drank from a plastic bottle of Aquafina. She wore lilac scrubs. When Serena sat down opposite her, Regan glanced at the other tables to see who was within earshot.

'I guess you talked to Valerie,' Regan said with a small smile.

Serena leaned across the table. 'This isn't a joke. You're lucky I'm not arresting you.'

'It wouldn't be the first time,' Regan said, chewing on her salad. 'But I suppose you know that by now, don't you?'