Chapter 13 #3
“Ache. It’s already easing.”
“Medication?”
“Not yet.”
“You should lie down.”
“I am sick of lying down.”
“I know.”
His hand settled on my knee instead of reaching for my hip.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For stopping.”
“You stopped because I hurt.”
“I still wanted—”
“So did I.”
The admission warmed me.
Reid’s thumb moved once over my knee.
“Wanting can wait.”
“What if I’m tired of waiting?”
“Then you learn patience.”
“You’re enjoying this authority.”
“I am your former employer.”
“Current employer.”
“Only when you return to work.”
“I will.”
His expression became serious.
“When you’re ready.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“I know.”
“I remembered the workbench.”
“I know.”
“I can help downstairs.”
“You can.”
“Then let me.”
“Not today.”
I glared at him.
Reid smiled.
“Your seduction technique requires work.”
“You kissed me.”
“Temporary lapse.”
“More than once.”
“Three times.”
“Who is counting?”
“I have been deprived.”
The humor disappeared from his face as soon as the words escaped.
“I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Why?”
“Because it makes my desire your responsibility.”
“No. It makes you honest.”
He looked uncertain.
I touched his wrist.
“You are allowed to want me.”
Reid’s gaze darkened.
“You should be careful saying that.”
Heat pulsed low in my abdomen.
“Why?”
“Because I want you very much.”
The quiet intensity of the confession tightened every inch of my skin.
I looked at his mouth.
Then at the hand resting near my knee.
“If I asked you to touch me, would you?”
“Yes.”
“Anywhere?”
His jaw flexed.
“Anywhere you asked, provided it did not harm you.”
“That answer is painfully clinical.”
“It is how I remain in control.”
“Did you always need control?”
“With you?”
“Yes.”
“Especially with you.”
“Why?”
“Because you enjoyed testing it.”
A smile came before I could stop it.
“That sounds promising.”
“It was exhausting.”
“You loved it.”
“I did.”
The apartment felt warmer.
Desire blurred the edge of my fatigue, which probably made it more dangerous than appealing.
Reid saw the exhaustion before I acknowledged it.
“Rest.”
I groaned. “You have become predictable.”
“And you have become slow enough that I can watch each objection form.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
He said it lightly.
Neither of us missed the weight beneath it.
I looked at him.
“No.”
I squeezed his hand.
“I don’t.”
He helped me settle against the couch.
I refused the blanket until the room became cold enough that accepting it no longer felt like surrender.
Reid brought me the memory journal.
“What am I supposed to write?”
“Whatever feels real.”
I opened to a blank page.
My handwriting looked unfamiliar, slanted and uneven.
I wrote slowly.
Three-note whistle belongs to Reid.
Then stopped.
“That isn’t enough.”
“You can add to it later.”
I stared at the sentence.
How could I describe the way the signal moved through me?
There was no picture.
No date.
Only the certainty of turning toward him.
I wrote:
It means find me.
Beneath that:
I knew his hand at the back of my neck.
Then:
We kissed.
Reid, reading upside down, smiled.
“Do not add commentary.”
“I said nothing.”
“Your face did.”
I wrote another line.
He still kisses very well.
Reid laughed.
I liked the way the page made him happy.
“What do I call today?”
“Sunday.”
“You know that isn’t what I mean.”
He considered.
“The day you recognized the signal.”
“That sounds like a clinical note.”
“The day you kissed me.”
“I have kissed you before.”
“The day you kissed me after recognizing the signal.”
“Worse.”
Reid leaned back.
“What would you call it?”
I looked at the words.
“The day I found you.”
His expression changed.
I wrote it at the top of the page in uneven capitals.
THE DAY I FOUND REID.
My vision blurred.
I blinked until the letters sharpened again.
Reid’s hand covered mine.
“You didn’t lose me.”
“I lost everything.”
“Not everything.”
“I know that now.”
I closed the journal.
Fatigue dragged at me.
“Will you stay?”
“Yes.”
“Not downstairs.”
“Here.”
“Can you work at the table?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t want you watching me sleep.”
“I never watch you.”
“You absolutely do.”
“I monitor your breathing.”
“That is worse.”
“It is medically responsible.”
I shifted onto my right side.
Reid rearranged the cushions and placed one beneath my braced arm.
His care did not make me feel like a burden.
Not then.
It felt like another language I was beginning to learn.
He bent to pull the blanket over me.
I touched his face.
Reid stopped.
“Come closer.”
He leaned down.
I kissed him once.
Briefly.
“Date tomorrow.”
“If you feel well.”
“Date tomorrow even if I feel terrible.”
“Then we conduct it on this couch.”
“Food?”
“Yes.”
“No hospital soup.”
“Agreed.”
“Music?”
“Possibly.”
“No singing.”
“Unreasonable.”
“Your timing is offensive.”
He smiled.
“What kind of dates did we enjoy?”
“Quiet ones.”
“Good.”
“You preferred staying home.”
“That feels right.”
“We could cook.”
“With one hand?”
“You supervise.”
“I dislike supervising.”
“You criticize.”
“That I can do.”
His thumb brushed gently beneath my eye.
“Sleep.”
“Whistle first.”
He did.
Two short.
One long.
I closed my eye.
The sound moved through me.
Find me.
I tightened my fingers around his hand.
“Answer.”
Reid leaned close.
“I’m here.”
Sleep took me with his voice still warm against my skin.
When I woke again, evening had darkened the apartment.
A lamp glowed over the dining table.
Reid sat beneath it with his laptop open and a pair of reading glasses low on his nose.
I had not known he wore glasses.
The discovery felt strangely intimate, like seeing a private version of him that the photographs had missed.
Marlowe lay on the floor between us, guarding the room in his sleep.
I watched Reid work.
His brow furrowed when he concentrated. His fingers moved quickly over the keyboard. Every few minutes, he paused and rubbed the bridge of his nose beneath the glasses.
He looked tired.
He also looked safe.
The word came without effort.
Safe.
Not because Reid could prevent every terrible thing.
No one could.
He was safe because he did not disappear when terrible things happened.
I pushed myself upright carefully.
Reid noticed before I made a sound.
“How do you feel?”
“Better.”
“What time is it?”
“Six.”
“I slept three hours?”
“Almost.”
“You stayed.”
“Yes.”
I looked at the journal resting on the table.
Inside it was one thing that belonged to me.
Not a story borrowed from someone else.
Not proof gathered from photographs and messages.
A piece of my life with emotion still attached.
I had not recovered six years.
I had recovered a direction.
Toward Reid.
Perhaps memory would return slowly.
Perhaps it would never return.
Perhaps I would spend the rest of my life understanding the shape of what had been taken without ever seeing it clearly.
That possibility still hurt.
It would always hurt.
But I no longer wanted to wait for the past to grant me permission to live.
I wanted the date.
I wanted to kiss Reid again.
I wanted to learn why he hated dried fruit in cereal and why my handwriting occupied half the margins in his business ledgers. I wanted to know how he drank his coffee, what made him furious, and what he sounded like when laughter stole his breath.
I wanted to meet the man I had already chosen once.
Not because I owed loyalty to the smiling stranger in the photographs.
Because Reid came when I called.
Because he stayed when I was frightened.
Because before my mind knew his name, some hidden part of me had been listening for his signal.
Reid closed the laptop.
“Hungry?”
“Yes.”
“What sounds tolerable?”
I considered how exhausting choices had become.
Then I thought about the difference between being asked and being controlled.
“Something simple.”
“Pasta?”
“With an irresponsible amount of cheese.”
“There is no responsible amount.”
I smiled.
Reid stood and crossed the room.
As he passed the couch, I caught his hand.
He looked down at me.
“Tomorrow.”
“The date?”
“Yes.”
His expression softened.
“Tomorrow.”
“And tonight?”
“Dinner.”
“Afterward?”
“Whatever you choose.”
I tugged gently until he leaned closer.
“Stay near me.”
Reid lifted my hand to his mouth.
His lips touched my knuckles.
“I can do that.”
I believed him.
The belief was not a memory.
It was better.
It was mine.