Page 21 of Obeying

"My knots were fine."

"Your knots were loose, Maxwell. I could have pulled them apart with two fingers. The professor even paused to watch. You were embarrassed, so when it was my turn, you found something to nitpick because you couldn't stand that I was right about your hands."

"I wasn't embarrassed. I was offering a clinical alternative."

"You were being petty." She rolls her eyes, but smiles. "God, we argued about it for so long, the professor told us to get out."

"Yes. Because of you."

"Because of us. It's always because of us."

She says it without thinking, but she must catch it, because she goes quiet for a second and picks up her fork again. I don't say anything. Neither does she. But it sits there between us, that word. Us.

She recovers fast. "Anyway, you're still just as annoying over dinner as you were in that simulation lab, so that tracks."

"And you still can't admit when someone else has a point."

"Your technique wasn't better. It was different. I stand by that."

"And your knot tension critique?"

"Your knots were loose. I stand by that, too."

"I will never live that down, will I?"

"Not as long as I'm alive." She points her fork at me. "And if you argue with me one more time, I'll pepper-spray you again."

"Resorting to violence when you can't win an argument. Such a Portland move."

She rolls her eyes, and for a second, it feels exactly like it used to.

"God, you really haven't changed, have you?" she says.

"Nope." I take a sip of my drink. "But you have. A lot, actually."

The lightness drains. Not all at once, but like someone turning a dial down slowly. She looks at her plate, and moves a piece of rice around with her fork.

"Earlier today," I start, keeping my voice even. “In the elevator. The way you reacted when I touched your arm." I pick my words carefully because I can see her tensing already, her fork still, her eyes on the table. "I'm not trying to force you to talk about anything. But I want you to know that if you ever feel unsafe, or if something's going on, you don't have to deal with it alone."

She's quiet for a while. Long enough that the waiter comes by to ask if we need anything, and I wave him off. I keep my eyes on her and wait. Kristen talks when she's ready and not a second before.

"My dad had a stroke right after graduation. A bad one. He needed full-time care, and I was the only family he had left, so I stayed." She takes a breath. "I took care of him for three years until he passed."

She says it simply. Like she's told this part enough times that the words come out smooth. But her hand is tight around her glass, and she's not looking at me.

"After he passed, I spent about a year putting myself back together. Studying again, volunteering at clinics, doing medical outreach. I didn't want to lose what I'd spent years learning." She pauses and sets her fork down. It clangs against the plate, but she doesn't seem to hear it. "Through one of those volunteer programs, I met someone. He seemed good at first. Then I found out he wasn't."

She pauses again, and this time she picks at the edge of her napkin.

"We didn't end on good terms. I tried to break up with him, but he wouldn't accept it. I ended up having to leave in secret. Pack what I could and go." She looks at me then, and her eyes are steady, but there's a storm underneath. "And I'm scared he's going to find me."

"Is that what happened earlier? In the elevator. Was it related to him?"

She nods. "I saw someone in the lobby. A resident from my old hospital, St. Andrew's. If he saw me..." She doesn't have to finish the sentence.

"Word could get back," I say.

"Yeah."