Even then, after the crushed metal and the screaming siren and the humiliation of being cut out of my own car, I still believed that. That is the embarrassing part. Not the accident. Not the broken ribs. Not even what came after. The embarrassing part is that thirty-one years old, lead architect on a fifteen-million-dollar waterfront project, more technically competent than half the men who sat on my father’s board, I still believed that if I called him myself and told him I needed him, Tyler Irwin would come.
I pressed call.
Ring.
Ring.
Then voicemail.
I tried again. That time it didn’t even ring. It was as if something had shut on the other end of the line. A door. A gate. A choice.
The nurse was watching my face with that professional sympathy people use when they are trying not to show pity too soon.
“Text him,” she suggested softly. “Sometimes people—”
Her sentence trailed off because she didn’t know what came next. Sometimes people answer texts. Sometimes people ignore calls because they’re in a meeting. Sometimes fathers don’t know their daughters are bleeding internally. She was trying to give me an explanation before the hurt arrived. It was kind. It just wasn’t useful.
My thumb moved clumsily over the keyboard.
