Page 44 of 10 Rings I Hate About You
I cleared my throat. “I may have communicated poorly at the town hall meeting.”
She stared at me like I asked her to take up taxidermy as a hobby. “Communicated poorly?”
“Yes.” I adjusted my glasses even though they weren’t slipping. It was either that or clench my fists. “My intention was not to undermine you. My word choices suggested a lack of confidence in your competence. That was not what I meant.”
What I’d meant was:I’m terrified we’ll fail. I’m terrified someone’ll get hurt. I’m terrified that if I don’t control every variable, it will all fall apart and I’ll lose the one place that’s ever felt like home besides my clinic.
She set the papers down and crossed her arms. “It sure felt like it.”
“I know.” The words came out sharper than I intended, frustration bleeding through. Not at her. At myself. At my complete inability to say what I actually meant, instead of hiding behind facts and protocols and the illusion of control.
I slowed my breathing, forcing myself to continue carefully. “I know it felt that way. And I’m—I regret that.”
Her shoulders eased slightly. Progress. “I know you didn’t mean to, Marc, but you did.”
I opened my mouth, then shut it again.
She was right.
I hated that. Hated that my intentions—good, careful, protective—had translated into something that hurt her.
“You’re right,” I said finally, each word feeling like pulling teeth. “It doesn’t matter that I was attempting to prevent foreseeable harm. I bypassed acknowledging that you have experience running events like this.”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
“It was dismissive,” I said. The words sat heavy in my mouth, tasted bitter. “And I dislike being dismissed. Intensely. I shouldn’t have done that to you. It was hypocritical of me.”
Silence settled between us.
The fluorescent light continued to buzz overhead like an impatient insect. The refrigerator’s humming seemed louder than before. And somewhere in the shelter, a dog barked.
I was losing focus.
“I don’t think you’re incompetent,” I added, because apparently I couldn’t leave well enough alone. Words poured out of my mouth like I’d lost the ability to self-edit. “We may disagree on the methodology. You are impulsive and are inclined toward intuitive decision-making, where I generally overthink every variable. You’re more instinct-driven. I’m more data-driven. But that doesn’t mean?—”
Her eyebrow lifted slowly, and I watched the movement with far too much attention. The arch of it. The way it changed her whole expression.
I winced internally. That had not helped.
She stared at me for a long second, and I couldn’t read her expression. Couldn’t tell if she was angry or amused or simply done with this entire conversation.
“That’syour apology?”
“Yes?” I said, hesitantly.
Which was very unlike me. I was decisive. I spoke in certainties and provable truths.
But Delaney made me uncertain in ways I didn’t know how to navigate.
“Try again,” she demanded.
I wished apologies came with bullet points. Or a flow chart. Preferably color coded.
She tapped her fingers on the table—a steady rhythm that seemed to echo the erratic beat of my pulse. I found myself watching her hands—the pale pink polish chipped at the corner of her thumbnail, a faint scar along her knuckle I’d never noticed before—and wondered how it had happened. If it had hurt. If she’d been alone or if someone had been there to help her.
When had I started noticing these things?
When had I started … caring?
