He closed his eyes.
“I knew. I knew right then.”
“And you lied.”
“I lied.” He opened his eyes again. “I’ve carried that guilt since we were kids. Every day. Every single day of my life.”
He leaned against the doorframe. Like he didn’t have the strength to stand on his own.
“Becoming an ophthalmic surgeon wasn’t random,” he said. “I did it because of you.”
I just stared at him.
“After the accident, my dad got transferred. We moved to Ohio three weeks later. My parents thought it was better. A fresh start. Nobody would look at me like the boy who blinded the Reeves girl.” He laughed, a broken little sound. “My mom told me never to talk about it. Ever. So I didn’t. Not to anyone. Not one person. Not for thirty-eight years.”
“Your mom came to the hospital,” I said. “Every day. She held my hand.”
