Fateful Lightning: A New History of the Civil War & Reconstruction by Allen Guelzo (self help books to read TXT) 📕

needed to imagine that those icy tendrils of pain and loss and heartbreak that were already enfolding her were not actually hers.

“Tom, I don’t feel that I know you. What you did to the muggers in London and to the Russians on the canal, it’s like you are some kind of terminator.” Nia paused and stared down at her hands resting on her lap knowing she needed to avoid looking into Tom’s eyes. “Look, I think things have moved so quickly for us. Maybe too fast,” her voice was flat, devoid of warmth and intonation.

“No wait, Nia,” Tom reached over with his right hand for her hand but Nia didn’t take it. Pain shot through the left side of his body. “Please don’t do this. You don’t have to do this.”

“I think we need to take a break. We got too serious before I could feel that I really know you. And, after all this, I don’t really know who you are. You never told me about your parents’ death, you lied to me about the Russians you ran into in London. You kept a gun on your boat Tom. You killed a man and shot another one. You’re some kind of hunter killer. I saw that side of you, Tom, a different side of you, and I can’t get my head around that. It scared me. You scared me, damn it. I know you’re hurting but you have hurt me, Tom.”

Tom saw the pain on her face and stopped himself pointing out that she, too, had killed someone.

“I never, ever meant to hurt you. That was the last thing I ever, ever wanted to do, Nia,” Tom said his voice cracking. “I was trying to protect you. I love you.”

“I thought I loved you,” Nia lied. “But now I’m not sure and I need to take some time. I need some time for myself.”

“Nia, you can’t mean any of this. We have something, you and I, and, and… I know you love me. Don’t do this.”

“Tom, you’re a nice guy. I told you some time ago that I’m not a nice person that I’m selfish, that I have no time for other people. That I burn through people, Tom. I’m sorry but that’s the way it is. That’s the way I am.” Her eyes welled but she struggled to maintain control as she got up to go.

“You don’t have to do this,” Tom pleaded.

Nia felt she had to leave, or she’d break down and take it all back. Her voice wavered, she wanted to take it back but then she summed up some steely determination from the depth of her actor’s training.

“Look, give me some time to get my head around all this and I’ll get back in touch,” she said. “We’ll talk more then.”

Tom stared at Nia, but she lowered her head and avoided his eyes. “You once told me that no one can hurt you like the people you love,” Tom said, the pain obvious in his faltering voice.

Nia turned at the door.

“I love you Nia. I always will,” Tom said and then she was gone.

Nia walked quickly down the hospital corridor with tears rolling down her face. What have I done? she thought, and the thought reverberated in her head.

Tom laid back on the hard hospital bed. He was shocked and confused. What the bloody hell had just happened?

Before Nia, Tom had been emotionally spent, full to the brim with pain and sadness and sorrow with no space left for anything else. Then Nia had wafted elegantly into his life and had taken the broken pieces of him and rebuilt him as strong and resilient as a dry-stone wall. She had shown him that his capacity for emotional connectivity was infinite. Or at least it was until Nia walked out of his hospital room and out of his life. He felt utterly incapacitated.

***

London, February 28th

Nia had returned from the hospital to her London home and retreated to her bed and then her study. She couldn’t bear to look at the painting of the Periwinkle and removed it from her study’s wall. She ignored calls and texts from her friends, even from Jane. Nia cried frequently. She regretted what she said in the hospital and how she had said it. She called the hospital for updates on Tom’s recovery. She drafted a desperate apologetic text to Tom but deleted it.

Nia attempted to console herself in the knowledge that even though she had overreacted, as all her relationships crashed into bitter ends, that it was better to end this one sooner rather than the inevitable later. She would convince herself that she was right, that she was okay, and then she’d be overwhelmed. Nia felt herself spiralling into a depression but didn’t have the strength nor the will to stop and pull herself out.

The MI5 deputy director was true to her word and requested Nia’s presence for a debrief at Thames House. Nia was significantly intimidated to receive a summons to the shadowy security service’s headquarters, although she wouldn’t have admitted her apprehension to anyone but Tom. Tom. Even his name, his face in her mind’s eye, made the pain a blunt and bitter reality. She questioned herself again about her actions; why had she impetuously walked away? He had lied to her, she thought, but she had lied, by omission, to him. Her thinking got stuck in a mobius ring of recriminations and second guessing. Tom had made her happy, yes, but she didn’t deserve happiness. He was a nice person and she wasn’t. She hadn’t answered Tom’s phone calls and responded to his texts with a curt “Not ready to talk yet.”

At Thames House, Nia sat in a spartan private waiting room deep in the building’s bowels. She was wearing a stylish navy suit, and a pearl silk blouse, the kind of