Chapter 10 #2
His gaze sharpened with embarrassment.
“I can manage.”
“The door stays unlocked.”
“I know.”
“I’ll be outside.”
“I know.”
“You have the emergency pull cord.”
“Reid.”
“Yes?”
“Go away.”
I left him with a smile.
In the kitchen, I checked the medication schedule, though I already knew it. I adjusted the lights. I moved a box of tools Caleb had left on the counter. Then I stood in the hallway, listening without appearing to listen.
Water ran briefly.
The chair motor hummed.
A cabinet door opened and shut.
Silence stretched.
I counted to twenty.
Before I reached twenty-one, the bathroom door opened.
Noah emerged looking irritated but upright.
“You survived.”
“Your faith is touching.”
“Any pain?”
“Normal amount.”
“Dizzy?”
“No.”
“Did you—”
“If you ask whether I completed every stage of urination successfully, I will reverse over your toes.”
I raised both hands.
He steered past me toward the final door.
The bedroom.
I had known this moment would come.
The room stood ready because I had spent three nights changing it and then undoing half the changes.
I had removed the rug but left the old cedar chest. Shifted the bedside table farther from the bed, then returned it when the empty space looked wrong. Cleared my clothes from one side of the wardrobe, yet left two sweaters Noah had worn more often than I did.
Our bed remained beneath the harbor-facing windows.
Fresh gray sheets.
Navy blanket.
The quilt Leah gave us one Christmas folded across the foot.
One pillow on each side, though only one person was meant to sleep there.
Noah stopped in the doorway.
The chair’s motor went silent.
I waited behind him.
His gaze traveled slowly: windows, wardrobe, bed, lamp, framed photograph turned facedown on my former bedside table.
I had forgotten that one.
He noticed.
“What’s that?”
I stepped around him and picked it up.
The photograph showed us on a dock at sunset, my forehead against his, his hand curled into the collar of my jacket.
I had turned it down because waking beside our happiness seemed unfair when he did not remember it.
“Why was it facedown?” Noah asked.
“I thought you might want to choose whether you saw it.”
He took the frame.
His thumb moved across the glass.
“We look married.”
“We weren’t.”
“Why not?”
The question came so naturally that my chest hurt.
“We talked about it.”
“And?”
“You wanted a small ceremony. I wanted none.”
His eyebrows rose.
“I wanted to marry you, but I didn’t want a ceremony,” I clarified.
“What did we decide?”
“To wait until the yard’s expansion loan was paid.”
“That’s romantic.”
“You designed a budget spreadsheet.”
“Even more romantic.”
He looked at the photograph again.
“Were we engaged?”
“No.”
“Did you ask?”
“Once.”
His head lifted.
“You said no?”
“I asked badly.”
“How badly?”
“We were replacing the galley pump on a forty-foot cruiser. You were inside a cabinet with your legs sticking out. I said we should get married for tax purposes.”
Noah stared at me.
“I said no.”
“You told me to try again when I could make it sound less like asset management.”
“That is reasonable.”
“It was.”
“Did you try again?”
“I bought a ring.”
His fingers tightened around the frame.
“Where is it?”
“In the office safe.”
“Why didn’t you ask?”
“I was waiting for our anniversary.”
“When?”
“Six weeks from now.”
The room fell silent.
Noah looked at the photograph, then at me.
“The accident happened before you asked.”
“Yes.”
“Do I know about the ring?”
“You do now.”
His face closed.
“I shouldn’t have told you.”
“No.”
“You asked.”
“I’m glad you told me.”
He turned the frame facedown again and placed it on the table.
The action hurt.
I kept my expression neutral.
Noah moved the chair toward the bed.
He stopped beside the window side.
“My side.”
The words came with certainty.
“Yes.”
He placed his palm on the blanket.
“I know this.”
My breath caught.
“How?”
“I don’t.”
He closed his eye.
“The window is behind me when I wake up. The light comes across the bed.”
“Yes.”
“You’re on that side.”
“Yes.”
“You sleep facing me.”
“Usually.”
“Your feet are cold.”
I could not speak.
Noah opened his eye.
My face must have answered for me.
“I knew that?”
“Yes.”
His mouth parted.
“I can’t see it. I just know.”
“That still matters.”
He looked toward the opposite side of the bed.
“Where are your things?”
“I moved them.”
“Why?”
“I’ll sleep in the spare room.”
His gaze came back to me.
“We didn’t share this room?”
“We did.”
“Then why are you leaving?”
“I’m not leaving.”
“You know what I mean.”
I leaned against the dresser, needing support I did not want him to see.
“You don’t remember agreeing to share a bed with me. You deserve privacy.”
“Do you want privacy?”
“No.”
I answered too quickly.
Noah’s gaze sharpened.
I continued carefully.
“But wanting something does not make it appropriate.”
“What do you think I’m afraid you’ll do?”
“I don’t know what will frighten you.”
“Have I acted frightened of you?”
“At the hospital, yes.”
His expression fell.
“You flinched when I reached for you.”
“I don’t remember.”
“I do.”
The words came out harsher than intended.
I softened my voice.
“I remember enough for both of us right now. That means I’m careful.”
He looked toward the bed.
“What if I wake up in here and don’t know where I am?”
“I’ll keep my door open.”
“The spare room is across the hall.”
“Yes.”
“That isn’t the same.”
“No.”
He touched the blanket again.
“I don’t want you in this bed because you think I owe you.”
“I would never.”
“I know.”
The certainty in his answer struck me.
“But I don’t want you hiding in another room because you think I’m made of glass.”
“You have a healing skull fracture.”
“You know what I mean.”
I did.
“You decide,” I said. “Not tonight while you’re tired. Not because you feel sorry for me. You can ask me to sleep here, in the spare room, on the couch, or downstairs. The answer will be yes.”
“Where have you been sleeping?”
“The spare room.”
“On what?”
“A pullout couch.”
He frowned.
“That thing is awful.”
“You remember it?”
“No. It looks awful.”
“It is.”
A knock sounded from below.
“Food,” Caleb called up the stairwell.
The interruption loosened the room.
Noah handed me the photograph.
“Leave it up.”
“Faceup?”
“Yes.”
I turned it over on the bedside table.
His gaze lingered on it.
Then he backed the chair toward the hall.
“I’m hungry.”
“So am I.”
“You can carry everything?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I intend to supervise.”
We ate at the dining table overlooking the harbor.
The burgers came wrapped in paper that immediately surrendered to grease. The onion rings were hot enough to punish impatience, and Noah burned his tongue on the first one.
I slid his water closer.
“You were warned.”
“By whom?”
“The laws of temperature.”
He glared at the onion ring.
“It looked safe.”
“Fried food rarely is.”
Marlowe stationed himself between us, gaze traveling from one plate to the other.
Noah tore a corner from his bun.
“Don’t.”
He paused.
“He looks starving.”
“He ate twenty minutes ago.”
The dog widened his eyes.
Noah looked at me. “You’re cruel.”
“He has eaten part of a leather wallet and an entire birthday cake. His judgment cannot be trusted.”
“What kind of cake?”
“Carrot.”
“That’s practically salad.”
Marlowe received the bread.
I sighed.
“You have known him one day and already ruined every boundary.”
“He remembered me.”
The joy in Noah’s voice took the argument out of me.
I watched him slip another piece beneath the table.
“Fine. But when he wakes you at five expecting breakfast, I’ll remind you.”
“He can sleep with me.”
“He will take the entire bed.”
“So you slept there too.”
“I learned defensive positioning.”
Noah glanced toward the hallway.
The bedroom remained between us even from here.
He changed the subject.
“What does this building sound like in a storm?”
“Louder.”
“Helpful.”
“The roof creaks. The docks pull at their lines. Rain hits the harbor windows sideways.”
“Do I like it?”