I have this strange sense, as I drive away from Bray, that this is the end. It shouldn’t be, really. It seems an easy enough thing to work through. I’ll have to tell him about the scar eventually—about everything, eventually—but I’m okay with that. I’ll be ready eventually.
But it still feels like the end.
When I get to Patrick’s, he tells me I’ve fractured my humerus bone, and he puts this giant, hideous cast on it, and the whole time he does, I just sit there, staring off. A few times, he makes me swear I’m not back with the guy who used to beat up on me. I assure him I’m not; a horse simply stepped on me.
It does sound pretty unlikely, I suppose.
I hate endings.
When I get home, Dom is there. His car isn’t, but he’s in my room, waiting. When I see him, I don’t stiffen up the way I
