Chapter 7 #3
“Then it never comes back.”
His face tightened.
I continued before fear could make the words sound hopeless.
“And you still get a life.”
“Not that one.”
“No. Maybe not exactly.”
His gaze dropped to the photographs.
“But you won’t be empty,” I said. “You won’t be alone. You’ll decide what comes next, and I’ll help if you let me.”
“Because you loved him.”
“I love you.”
He looked up.
The distinction mattered to me more than anything.
“Not a memory of you,” I said. “Not the man in those photographs. You. The man who is tired and angry and trying to make sense of something impossible.”
Noah stared at me.
“You don’t know me now.”
“I’m learning.”
“What if I’m different?”
“You are.”
The truth landed.
I let it.
“So am I.”
His fingers closed around the photo strip.
“I don’t know what you want from me.”
“Nothing you don’t choose.”
“You say that all the time.”
“Because I need you to believe it.”
His eyelids lowered.
Pain had begun to pull him under.
I reached for the call button, but he caught my wrist.
“Don’t get anyone yet.”
“You need rest.”
“I know.”
His hand slipped from my wrist into mine.
“Talk.”
“About what?”
He turned carefully onto his right side, facing me. The movement made him wince. I adjusted his pillow without touching his neck.
He kept the photographs in his hand.
“How did we meet?”
My heart struck hard enough to hurt.
“You want the true version or the one where I behaved impressively?”
“True.”
“That seems unfair.”
“Tell me.”
I sat closer.
“You came to the yard for an interview on a Tuesday morning.”
“What was I wearing?”
“A gray jacket that was too thin for the weather. You were carrying a toolbox even though I’d told you the interview wouldn’t involve practical work.”
“Why did I bring it?”
“You didn’t trust other people’s tools.”
“That sounds right.”
“You looked around the workshop before you looked at me. I found that insulting.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“No. I liked that you cared about the work.”
His eye stayed on my face.
“You had grease beneath your thumbnail from repairing your car in the parking lot.”
“What was wrong with it?”
“Loose battery terminal.”
“Easy.”
“You fixed it with a coin.”
“That’s bad practice.”
“You were desperate.”
He smiled faintly.
“I asked why you’d left Denver. You gave me three sentences that answered nothing.”
“What did you think?”
“That someone had hurt you.”
His smile disappeared.
“I didn’t ask again.”
“Why not?”
“You would tell me when you were ready.”
Noah looked down at our joined hands.
“When did I?”
“Months later.”
“Were we together?”
“Not yet.”
“Why did you hire me?”
“You knew integrated systems better than anyone I’d interviewed. You noticed a fault in the test panel from across the room.”
“And?”
“You had a beautiful mouth.”
Color touched his cheeks.
“You said true.”
“It is true.”
His thumb moved against my hand.
“What happened after?”
“You worked for me. We avoided each other badly.”
“Why?”
“I had a rule about employees.”
“Did I know you liked men?”
“Not at first.”
“How did I find out?”
“Caleb complained about one of my ex-boyfriends leaving camping equipment in his garage.”
“Caleb sounds useful.”
“Caleb believes privacy is an obstacle invented by cowards.”
Noah’s eyes grew heavier.
“And the first kiss?”
“A storm knocked out power across the harbor.”
“The green light?”
I stopped.
“What?”
His eye opened a little wider.
“Was there a green light?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“In the sail loft. An old navigation lamp hangs near the stairs. Emergency battery keeps it on when the electricity fails.”
The room went still.
Noah looked frightened and hopeful at once.
“My dream.”
“Maybe.”
“You were behind me.”
“Yes.”
His fingers tightened.
“What happened?”
“We’d been securing boats all night. Everyone else went home at dawn. We were checking for water damage when the lights failed.”
“And?”
“You reached for the wall and found me.”
His breathing changed.
“I held your arms. You asked whether I was all right.”
“Were you?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you were touching me.”
Noah’s mouth curved.
“I told you kissing me would be a terrible professional decision.”
“Did that stop me?”
“No.”
“Did you kiss me?”
“You kissed me first.”
His eye closed.
“Good.”
I laughed softly.
“You were very pleased with yourself.”
“Was it good?”
“Yes.”
“How good?”
I looked at his tired face, the scar at his temple, the hand still holding mine.
“Good enough that we spent the next hour discussing why we could never do it again.”
“And then?”
“You did it again.”
His smile deepened.
“Tell me more.”
I spoke until his breathing changed.
I told him about the first breakfast we shared in the office because neither of us had slept. I told him how he pretended not to know the mug beside my sink had become his. I told him about the afternoon he brought Marlowe home without asking and claimed the dog was only staying one night.
I did not tell him everything.
I gave him small pieces.
Safe pieces.
By the time I reached the night he moved into the apartment, Noah was asleep.
His fingers remained wrapped around mine.
The strip of photographs rested between us.