Hidden Hearts

by Olivia Dade

  He didn’t know how long he stayed there. But when he emerged, he could barely feel his feet. Which was probably for the best, since he landed on glass with his first step out of the stall. Slowly, he swept up that glass and the porcelain and everything else scattered around the room. One by one, he bandaged his new cuts, the physical markings of his frenzy.

  Afterward, he found his cell and wrote a text to Mary.

  Can’t make our date tonight. Sorry.

  He didn’t wait for a response, simply shut down his phone. And then he walked into his bedroom, shut all the blinds, and wondered whether morning would eventually come again.

  13

  After hours of radio silence from Miles, Mary decided to take action.

  When she’d read his text, she’d been concerned but not panicked. Within moments, she’d sent him a brief e-mail asking if everything was all right. And then, when he hadn’t responded to that message by late afternoon, she’d figured maybe his internet had gone down, so she’d tried texting him instead.

  No answer.

  By bedtime that night, she’d dismissed any worries about appearing desperate. Largely because she was desperate. His lack of communication was completely out of character for him. For weeks, he’d called, texted, or e-mailed her multiple times a day. Always. And he’d never canceled a date before, especially without telling her why.

  Two potential explanations came to mind. Either he wanted to break up with her and couldn’t muster the nerve to say so—Angie had called that “ghosting,” if Mary remembered correctly—or something had gone terribly wrong.

  She was hoping for the former. If he’d decided not to see her anymore, fine. Okay, not fine, but she could handle it. What she couldn’t handle was her growing uncertainty about his welfare.

  That’s when she began calling him. Every thirty minutes until midnight.

  No answer.

  Miles wasn’t a coward. He wouldn’t break up with her without a word.

  She wasn’t worried about ghosting anymore. She was worried about injuries. Life-threatening, incapacitating injuries.

  He’d accidentally hurt himself before, as she well knew. Last month, she’d watched him carry an unwieldy box of tools toward the front door for his handywoman’s use. The box had bobbled violently in his arm as he’d walked across the living room, almost tipping over several times. When Mary had offered help, he’d refused. And he’d done so with enough irritated emphasis that she hadn’t asked again.

  Then, of course, she’d had to watch as he dropped that box with a loud thud on to his right foot. He’d hissed in pain. But when she’d jogged toward his icemaker, he’d told her to let him be. That he could take care of himself. So she’d sat by helplessly as he limped to the refrigerator, made an impromptu cold pack with a dish towel, and peeled off his sock to ice a rapidly blackening bruise on his foot.

  Afterward, he’d hobbled for at least a week.

  Just days ago, she’d seen him juggle a heavy pan of brownies, which she’d brought to bake at his house. They’d gone into the oven easily enough. But freshly baked and piping hot, they’d required more careful handling. She’d asked to help. He’d rejected the offer. So the brownies had ended up on the floor, and the pan had seared his forearm.

  That burn was still healing, covered by a bandage she changed every time she saw him. At least he’d let her do that much.

  And those were only two of the incidents she’d actually witnessed. Heaven only knew how many times he’d hurt himself without an audience.

  It was frustrating and heartrending. She didn’t want to take away an iota of his autonomy, and she didn’t want to question his decisions about what he was capable of doing. He had the right to refuse her help for any reason whatsoever, or for no reason at all. But she also didn’t want to see him hurt himself again and again. Not when she suspected his refusals of assistance stemmed less from pride and independence and more from an unwillingness to even acknowledge his missing arm. From a pretense that his life and body hadn’t changed at all, despite the fact that he barely left his cabin.

  Had he fallen from a ladder? Cut himself while trying to chop food? Slipped in the bathroom and found himself unable to reach a phone?

  The isolated location of his cabin, the privacy she knew he cherished, would leave him so alone in an emergency. No neighbors would hear calls for help. If he injured himself, no other houses sat within easy walking distance. And given how few visitors he typically received, he could go days without someone realizing all wasn’t well in the O’Connor residence.

  At least, someone other than her.

  She’d seen this movie before. It usually ended with a silent ambulance making its sad way to the morgue, no hurry necessary under the circumstances. It ended with bereft family members and swelling violins as the camera panned over a row of gravestones. It ended with tears, and she didn’t care to shed those in a real-life context.

  No one was making a biopic entitled “Miles O’Connor: A Star Fallen Too Soon.” Not on her watch.

  So around one o’clock in the morning, she started gathering supplies. A couple of flashlights and extra batteries, since his neighborhood turned pitch-black at nightfall. Her fully charged phone. Snacks, bottles of water, and a first-aid kit.

  Before two, she was rolling to a stop beside his car. The front door to his house was closed, and the flashlight didn’t reveal any signs of forced entry. Either he was still inside or had suffered some sort of terrible accident outdoors.

  A quick lap around the cabin didn’t reveal him sprawled and unconscious on the ground. That relieved one of her worries, but left countless more unaddressed. He could be lying on the floor of his cabin, injured or dying. He could have wandered into the woods and gotten irretrievably lost.

  Or, given the light she’d just seen illuminate the edges of a back window—his bedroom window, she assumed—he could have simply gone to bed without contacting her.

  Because his blinds were drawn, she didn’t know what was happening inside. But he was clearly home and well enough to turn on a light. And to be honest, she was getting more than a little embarrassed by her presumption and the depth of her worry.

  Miles has the right to spend an afternoon and evening without contacting me, she told herself. Heck, he has the right to ghost me, even though I wouldn’t have thought he was the type.

  She should drive home and leave him in peace.

  Still, the nagging certainty that something had gone terribly wrong wouldn’t leave her. His ability to turn on a light didn’t necessarily guarantee his well-being, after all. Maybe someone had done or said something terrible to him because of his arm. Maybe he’d even been recognized, the paparazzi were heading his way right now, and he was panicking.

  She shook her head. You’ve been hanging around Sarah too much.

  Okay, maybe she was being a drama queen. But shouldn’t she try one last time to talk to him? Just for a moment, to make sure everything was okay?

  So without letting the prospect of either an in-person rejection or his possible anger deter her, she marched to the front door and hit the doorbell. Within seconds, she heard familiar footsteps nearing the entryway.

  Her first thought: Thank goodness. He can still walk.

  Her second thought: Oh, no. If he’s fine, he’s going to think I’m a stalker.

  The porch light flicked on, and she squinted under its blinding glare. There was a momentary pause, during which she suspected he was looking through the peephole. And then the door opened, and Miles was standing in front of her.

  With a single glance, she knew. He might not have injured himself terribly—although his black eyes, swollen nose, bandaged feet, and the little cuts over his arms and face argued otherwise—but something was definitely wrong.

  He stared right through her, his hazel eyes stony. No goofy grin. Not a hint of the welcoming warmth she’d come to expect every time she saw him.

  And goodness
help her, he wasn’t saying a word. Not one.

  For the first time ever, she was intimidated by him.

  But he obviously needs you, Mary. Or if not you, someone. Be respectful of his wishes, but don’t let him hide either.

  “What happened?” she blurted out. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” When she directed a horrified glance at his various bruises and bandages, he shrugged. “I fell earlier, but nothing’s broken.”

  “Oh.” She swallowed hard. “Good.”

  “Why are you here? I said I couldn’t make it tonight.” His voice sounded shredded, like he’d been screaming or crying for hours, even though she couldn’t spy a trace of emotion on his face.

  “I know, but…” Her hands spread in a helpless gesture. “I kept feeling like something was really wrong. And when I couldn’t get in touch with you, I panicked.”

  “Well, I’m fine. And tired. I should be heading back to bed now.” He reached for the door. “I’ll contact you at some point tomorrow.”

  The impersonality of it all stung. The dismissal. The pretense that he was okay, when she’d never seen a human being suppressing so much pain. And she still didn’t even know why.

  “Good night, Mary.” The door started swinging shut.

  Her foot blocked it. “No.”

  As she’d suspected, he didn’t try to force the door closed. She might not understand his current state of mind, but she knew he’d never hurt her. Not physically. Not on purpose.

  This assertiveness wasn’t like her. Not in the slightest. But he was worth abandoning her usual constraints.

  She licked her dry lips and made her stand. “You can break up with me. You can refuse to talk to me again after tonight. You can even take out a restraining order first thing in the morning, if you’d like. But right now, you’re letting me in and telling me what happened. I’m not leaving until you do.”

  His jaw tightened so hard, she was worried he’d crack a tooth.

  Then he opened the door and stepped aside, allowing her into the cabin. She walked directly over to the lamp by the couch and flicked it on.

  She waved him closer. “Let me take a look at you.”

  His jaw still carved from stone, he obeyed.

  A slow circle revealed every bit of damage not covered by his loose T-shirt and jeans. The burn from the brownie pan, still pink but uncovered. The bruising around his eyes. His poor, misshapen nose. The innumerable cuts. The bandages she could see peeking out from the bottoms of his feet.

  “What in the world happened to you?” She kept trying to picture an accident that would cause all his injuries, and she wasn’t having a lot of success.

  He put his hand in his pocket with deliberate casualness. “A fall. Like I said.”

  “Where did you fall, then? And what caused the cuts on your feet?”

  Maybe she shouldn’t keep pushing. It certainly wasn’t her normal behavior. Instinct, rather than habit, was driving her now. Instinct and her longing for him to share himself with her. His true self, not the polished version he wanted to offer the world.

  She’d shared a good portion of her darkest secrets with him the other night. The endless circles around her coffee table. Her hair falling out, strand by strand. The vigilance she employed to stop herself from falling into old, destructive habits.

  If they were ever going to have a real relationship, he needed to share right back. She didn’t want a self-sufficient monolith of a man, impervious to pain and struggle. She wanted him, body and mind and soul.

  To this point, he hadn’t allowed her to get a clear glimpse of any of the three.

  Tonight, she was either cracking his defenses or admitting defeat once and for all. If he couldn’t even talk about his new injuries with her, his girlfriend of two months, what did they really have, anyway? Not a genuine relationship, Mary knew that for sure.

  When he stayed silent, she took a deep breath and brought out the wrecking ball. The question that had remained unanswered. The unacknowledged elephant standing between them, using up all the oxygen and space in the room even while she and Miles pretended not to see it.

  “Okay, then. Forget about today. What happened to your arm? How did you lose it?”

  His face turned the white of bleached bone, and his breath grew fast.

  “I’m a librarian, Miles. I do research. I know that the last time you were seen in public, you were shooting an episode of The Naked Carpenter on location in South America. So I assume that’s where the accident happened. Was it a car wreck? Did you have a problem with your tools? Was there an explosion of some sort?”

  He was trembling. Then again, so was she.

  “If you want a relationship with me, you need to answer my questions. Not because I’m nosy or want gory details, but because I can’t love a man who doesn’t let himself be known. I can’t give myself to a man who keeps so much of himself locked away. And I can’t reach your pain when you keep pretending it doesn’t exist.” Her voice broke. “I want to love you, Miles. I want to give myself and my trust to you. I want to support you. But I can’t do any of those things if you don’t talk to me.”

  His eyes met hers, and she could almost see the turmoil of his thoughts as he measured his fears against his longing. He stared at her, silent and motionless, for so long she began to doubt he’d ever open up to her, ever let her offer her heart and claim his.

  If he hadn’t started talking by now, he wasn’t going to share himself with her.

  She was losing him. For good.

  All her blinking didn’t suffice, not in the face of such pain. Hers and his both. And despite her best efforts, hot tears slid from the corners of her eyes.

  At the sight of those tears, the first crack finally appeared in his façade.

  He blinked too. Hard. “It was a fall. Like today, only worse. So much worse.”

  “From your show’s construction site?”

  His head inclined a bare millimeter. “The roof. The damage was too bad. There was no saving it. Not at a small clinic like the one they took me to. I…” He swallowed. “I woke up in an American hospital. My arm was still there. I knew it was. I could feel it. But then I looked over, and…”

  His chest heaved. “There was nothing. My shoulder, a mass of dressing, and nothing.”

  She waited. He didn’t say more, but the trembling had turned into shaking. She could almost see the pressure building within him, inexorable and ugly. And when it finally released, she wanted to be there to protect him and provide comfort.

  Ignoring his unyielding stance, she walked up to him and wrapped her arms around his waist. “Let it out. Let it out, Miles.”

  I’ll hold you together, I promise.

  The dam crumbled. “My fault. It was all my fault. I was so fucking stupid, Mary. Showboating up on the roof like gravity didn’t apply to me. Like I couldn’t get hurt, no matter what asinine shit I did. One moment, I was mugging and waving to the camera, and then”—he stifled a sob—“I couldn’t catch myself. I couldn’t catch myself the way I had a million times before.”

  She held him tighter, so tightly her arms hurt.

  “I tried, but I was out of control. Nothing to hold on to. I could hear people screaming. I think I was screaming, too. And then I was in the hospital, and my arm was gone. My career was gone. And I was in agony. From the amputation site, and from my goddamn missing arm. I didn’t even have it anymore, but it wouldn’t stop shrieking at me.”

  Each little hitch of his breath and jerk of his body tore through her.

  Rubbing his back, she whispered, “Does it still hurt?”

  He lowered his head to her shoulder. “The actual wound stopped hurting months ago. I don’t take traditional painkillers anymore.”

  “What about phantom pain? From your arm, like you said?”

  “They gave me another type of medicine. The same stuff they use to treat epilepsy and insomnia. A heavy dose at first, then less and
less. I’m off that now too.” He took a shaky breath. “I can still sense my arm. Most of it, anyway. And sometimes it feels constricted, like it’s in a vise, but it’s not actually painful anymore. I have phantom sensation, not phantom pain.”

  “So things are getting better?”

  He stiffened against her, and she let him go when he pulled away.

  “No.” A few quick paces took him to the other side of the room, and he clenched his hand on the back of the sofa. “No, things aren’t getting better, Mary. I still don’t have a fucking arm.”

  She bit her lip, heartsick at his distress. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “Every single thing I do takes at least twice as long as it used to, and there are things I can’t do at all anymore. Including my goddamn job.” His face was tight. Angry. “I can’t even fix my own stupid cabin. My sense of balance is so off that I fall for no real fucking reason, like I did today on my run.”

  He swung his arm wide. “And when I go out, I’m constantly being watched. By people who’d pity me if they knew who I used to be and what I used to do. But even worse, by people who have no idea who I am, just that I’m a freak. The dude without an arm. The dude who didn’t even lose his arm in some good cause, like war, or in some unavoidable accident, like a car crash. I lost my arm because of my own stupidity. Period.”

  She’d wanted this flood. She’d prodded and poked at him, battering at his defenses until she’d gotten it. Now she just had to hope that she’d made the right decision. That forcing him to talk would help him in the end. Because right now, she could only see his agony, brought to the surface because of her badgering.

  “Then there are the people who come up to me.” His laugh rang through the room, bitter and harsh. “They tell me how inspirational I am, when all I’m doing is pumping gas or picking up groceries. They carry my bags to my car without asking first. They tell me at least I’m alive, and that I should be grateful.”

  His voice rose to a near-shout. “I’m not here to teach other people lessons about appreciating what they have or about bravery. I’m not inspirational. I don’t want admiration for performing basic tasks, like I’m a monkey or a child. I don’t want help if I don’t ask for it. I don’t want people staring at my missing arm or, worse, looking away, like the sight is obscene. I don’t want to be told at least you’re alive or these things happen for a reason, because that’s just telling me I shouldn’t be angry or sad, at least not where it might make other people uncomfortable.”