“Just my hand, don’t worry about it.”
“No, let me see,” he presses, still reaching. “Is it all right?” No, it’s not all right. It’s shaking, and all tightened up on me, something that still happens every now and then. Just one more bit of my broken body that hasn’t healed quite right, and probably never will. Ashamed doesn’t come close to covering how I feel, cowering like this on the floor of Michael Warner’s deck.
“Please,” he urges, reaching gingerly for my hand again, and this time, I let him. I let him get a little bit closer than I have until now, as one by one he uncurls my coiled fingers. That’s when the silvered scar is revealed, jagged through the center of my palm, like a terrible brand. There’s nothing mystical or Harry Potteresque about it, I can assure you.
He massages the thick band of tissue, tracing and rubbing his thumb over the length of the thing, and neither of us says a word. Not until I whisper, “I tried to stop the knife.” I extend my other palm in front of my face, demonstrating. “Like that. It severed the muscle and a few nerves in my hand.”
He nods, then gently lifts my open palm to his lips and kisses my scar. Not one kiss, but a soft trail of them along the slash mark. Tears fill my eyes, unbidden—unexpected, just like his tender gesture. Because in kissing that scar, I understand that he wishes he could kiss away the pain—all the pain that I’ve had to live with, ever since that fortuitous day.
The tears blur everything. “I’m sorry I didn’t… tell you more. The other day. It’s just hard to talk about it, when someone’s tried to kill you.” Then, I have to laugh at how utterly fantastic that sounds out loud. Someone tried to kill me.
“You don’t have to talk about it, Rebecca.” He closes my smaller hand within his much larger one. “I want to know you, that’s all. Like I said.”
“I wish you could read my palm,” I say, the laughter dying on my lips. “You’d know everything that way.”
Staring down, he traces the scar with his fingertip. “It is kind of like a life line.” I’ve never thought of it that way, but it certainly puts an ironic spin on my near-death experience. We’re not so different, him and me, having gazed pointblank into the jaws of our enemy. That’s what I’m thinking when I notice the shiny glint of his commitment ring.
“How was Santa Cruz?”
His whole body reacts as his gaze darts upward to meet mine. I regret the spark of pain in his eyes, but not the question. Now that I understand what this weekend meant to him, I definitely need to know.
Continuing to massage my palm, he asks slowly, “How come you want to know about that?”
“Andrea told me you went to Alex’s grave.” It’s weird to speak of his dead partner by name, in such a personal way, but already I feel like I know him a little—as eerie as that seems.
“It was a year ago yesterday he died,” he explains hoarsely.
“Andrea told me that, too,” I say. “About the anniversary.”
“Reckon you’ll forgive me now? For not calling and all?” He’s trying to joke, but the smile fades on his lips before it even forms.
“Michael, you are so forgiven,” I assure him with a sympathetic expression. “I know how hard this weekend must have been.”
“Gotten used to going this alone, you know, but meeting you’s already playing hell with that idea. Not that I don’t understand being alone, ’cause I do,” he asserts, moody eyes shimmering. “Just not how I got here so easily.”
“Tell me, Michael,” I encourage, touching his arm. “Tell me what you mean.”
He blows out a heavy breath, looking up into the hills. “Well, Rebecca…one minute you’re in traffic, minding your own damned business, just driving home and looking forward to the weekend.” Hesitating, he gazes into my palm again, at the scar, tracing his thumb across it as he reflects, “Next, the phone rings and it’s all over. It’s over because some asshole stopped for drinks near your house, near your family, on an average Friday afternoon when you thought they were safe.”
“Oh, Michael, I’m so sorry,” I whisper, feeling his pain physically. “You’ve been through so much.”
“Yeah, well that’s the thing about life,” he says with a sardonic laugh. “It’s those average days that get you.” He closes my fingers, one by one, until my scar is hidden again, adding, “You know about that.”