while you sneak up. You take him down, and we’ll gag him.”
He stares at me. Then he says, “I can’t do that.”
“You need to, and yes, I’m saying that because you’re a guy. He’s bigger than me. A lot bigger.”
“I understand what you mean, Riley, but …” He shakes his head, and there’s a look in his eyes, that same flinch as when I’d raised my hand, the same as when he’d avoided getting into it with Gideon.
I remember reading that the chance of abusing your spouse or child is higher if you were a victim of abuse. Is that it, then? It must be. He’s heard that, in therapy, and he shies in the other direction, avoiding violence, avoiding fights, and I want to say,
But this is important! You can break your rule for this
, except that’s not right. It isn’t like going vegetarian and then your life depends on eating a steak. This would be a line he didn’t dare cross, the proverbial slippery slope, like me making sure I’m out of bed by eight every day because I don’t ever want to get out of bed these days, and if I give in, just once, because I’m really tired, I’ll never get up again.
“It’s my condition,” he says. “My heart. Undue exertion and all that.”
I nod, absently. “We need to disable him. There’s no way to sneak in and grab the meds. We don’t know where they are. Aimee didn’t tell us …” Because she didn’t think she needed to. She expected to be here, with us. “We need to hunt for the meds and the counselors’ phones.”
“All right,” he says, shoulders lifting. “I’ll … take care of him.”
“No, I wasn’t trying to convince—”
“I have this.” Fear flickers behind his eyes, but he squares his shoulders. “I have this.”
“Maybe I can—”
“No, you’re right. It’s not sexism. You’d do better as a distraction. I’d do better taking him out, as you put it.”
“Do you know how?”
“My father is an army general, remember? He’d be a poor one if he didn’t give me some military training. I can put Cantina in a choke hold …” He trails off and that smile evaporates fast. He pulls back, gaze going distant, as if he’s seeing something I can’t. A memory, like my flashbacks. It’s his father, then. Or it was—I can’t imagine his dad would still hit him when he’s eighteen and six feet tall.
“Something,” he says. “I can do something.” That straightening again as he pulls on that overly British accent. “Right-i-o. Onward and upward, then. The trick, old girl, is to avoid the gun. At all costs, avoid the gun. Particularly the barrel end.”
He goes still, wincing, as if realizing this might not be the right thing to say to me, but I snort a laugh for him.
“He doesn’t have his gun,” I say. “Remember? Aaron or Brienne got it from him. I’ll still be careful, though. Now let’s do this.”
MAX: TEMERITY
Temerity:
excessive confidence or boldness
.
Timidity:
showing a lack of courage or confidence
.
In his year four, Max had gotten the words confused, telling his teacher that temerity caused a friend to refuse an oral presentation.
No, Max
, she’d said.
It’s timidity. Temerity is the opposite—being too cocky, too full of yourself. Timidity is Jay’s problem; temerity is yours
.
His classmates had laughed. Max didn’t care, which was, perhaps, a sign that his teacher was right. He’d never suffered from timidity. He’d been brought up to be confident, to be bold and even brash. The confidence from his mother—
you’re smart enough to be anything you want to be, Maximus
. The boldness from his father—
show them who you are, and don’t let anyone make you feel like less, Max, that’s how you get somewhere in this world. Be an officer, a leader of men
.
If anyone thought Max was a little too full of himself, that was their problem. Their insecurity. Their timidity. He didn’t crow over his successes or mock others for their failures. Needing to put others down suggested a
He stares at me. Then he says, “I can’t do that.”
“You need to, and yes, I’m saying that because you’re a guy. He’s bigger than me. A lot bigger.”
“I understand what you mean, Riley, but …” He shakes his head, and there’s a look in his eyes, that same flinch as when I’d raised my hand, the same as when he’d avoided getting into it with Gideon.
I remember reading that the chance of abusing your spouse or child is higher if you were a victim of abuse. Is that it, then? It must be. He’s heard that, in therapy, and he shies in the other direction, avoiding violence, avoiding fights, and I want to say,
But this is important! You can break your rule for this
, except that’s not right. It isn’t like going vegetarian and then your life depends on eating a steak. This would be a line he didn’t dare cross, the proverbial slippery slope, like me making sure I’m out of bed by eight every day because I don’t ever want to get out of bed these days, and if I give in, just once, because I’m really tired, I’ll never get up again.
“It’s my condition,” he says. “My heart. Undue exertion and all that.”
I nod, absently. “We need to disable him. There’s no way to sneak in and grab the meds. We don’t know where they are. Aimee didn’t tell us …” Because she didn’t think she needed to. She expected to be here, with us. “We need to hunt for the meds and the counselors’ phones.”
“All right,” he says, shoulders lifting. “I’ll … take care of him.”
“No, I wasn’t trying to convince—”
“I have this.” Fear flickers behind his eyes, but he squares his shoulders. “I have this.”
“Maybe I can—”
“No, you’re right. It’s not sexism. You’d do better as a distraction. I’d do better taking him out, as you put it.”
“Do you know how?”
“My father is an army general, remember? He’d be a poor one if he didn’t give me some military training. I can put Cantina in a choke hold …” He trails off and that smile evaporates fast. He pulls back, gaze going distant, as if he’s seeing something I can’t. A memory, like my flashbacks. It’s his father, then. Or it was—I can’t imagine his dad would still hit him when he’s eighteen and six feet tall.
“Something,” he says. “I can do something.” That straightening again as he pulls on that overly British accent. “Right-i-o. Onward and upward, then. The trick, old girl, is to avoid the gun. At all costs, avoid the gun. Particularly the barrel end.”
He goes still, wincing, as if realizing this might not be the right thing to say to me, but I snort a laugh for him.
“He doesn’t have his gun,” I say. “Remember? Aaron or Brienne got it from him. I’ll still be careful, though. Now let’s do this.”
MAX: TEMERITY
Temerity:
excessive confidence or boldness
.
Timidity:
showing a lack of courage or confidence
.
In his year four, Max had gotten the words confused, telling his teacher that temerity caused a friend to refuse an oral presentation.
No, Max
, she’d said.
It’s timidity. Temerity is the opposite—being too cocky, too full of yourself. Timidity is Jay’s problem; temerity is yours
.
His classmates had laughed. Max didn’t care, which was, perhaps, a sign that his teacher was right. He’d never suffered from timidity. He’d been brought up to be confident, to be bold and even brash. The confidence from his mother—
you’re smart enough to be anything you want to be, Maximus
. The boldness from his father—
show them who you are, and don’t let anyone make you feel like less, Max, that’s how you get somewhere in this world. Be an officer, a leader of men
.
If anyone thought Max was a little too full of himself, that was their problem. Their insecurity. Their timidity. He didn’t crow over his successes or mock others for their failures. Needing to put others down suggested a
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