Chapter 18 #3
“You’re learning.”
His eyelids lowered.
“I know boats.”
“Yes.”
“I know how to fix things.”
“Yes.”
“I know this.”
He touched my chest.
“What?”
“The way you feel behind me.”
My arm tightened around him.
“That is enough for tonight.”
He nodded.
“Tomorrow can be bigger.”
His breathing slowed.
I got him to bed before he fully fell asleep.
Then I joined him because leaving had become more difficult than unfinished paperwork.
He curled against me.
The night passed without nightmares.
Near dawn, Noah woke with a sharp breath.
I surfaced immediately.
“What is it?”
He sat upright.
His expression was angry and confused.
“I dreamed about burned cinnamon.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“There was smoke everywhere.”
His hand went to the scar near his temple.
“Someone kept opening a window. Marlowe stole something from the table.”
I pushed myself upright.
Noah frowned.
“You were wearing that rust-colored jacket.”
My heart kicked hard.
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
“Tell me everything.”
He looked irritated.
“Leah rented a beach house.”
I stopped breathing.
“She tried to make breakfast in that terrible oven,” he continued. “The fire alarm wouldn’t stop. Emma was little. Clara had cereal in her hair.”
His eye widened.
“Noah.”
He looked at me.
“Oh.”
Recognition spread across his face.
“This happened.”
“Yes.”
The words came out rough.
“Three years ago. Leah’s birthday weekend.”
Noah stared at the bedroom wall, but he was seeing somewhere else.
“You took the alarm off the ceiling.”
“It was defective.”
“You hit it with a towel.”
“I was under pressure.”
“Marlowe stole half a tray of cinnamon rolls.”
“Yes.”
“You wore the brown jacket because I said the green one made you look like a forest ranger.”
I laughed.
Tears filled my eyes before I could stop them.
“You remember my jacket.”
Noah’s mouth opened.
More arrived.
“I bought Leah that ceramic bird. She hated it.”
“She still has it.”
“Emma dared Clara to eat sand.”
“Clara did.”
“You washed her mouth out with bottled water.”
“I panicked.”
Noah began laughing.
Then crying.
The memories did not come neatly.
They spilled.
The beach house.
The broken toaster.
Leah arguing with the landlord.
A card game after the girls slept.
Noah’s feet in my lap.
The drive home through heavy rain.
He covered his mouth with his right hand.
“I remember you.”
I moved closer.
His face crumpled.
“I can see you.”
The words broke me open.
I took him into my arms.
Noah held me with both arms now, his recovering left one weak but determined.
“I remember your face when the alarm went off,” he said against my chest. “You looked furious. And then you laughed because I was laughing.”
“I remember.”
“I can feel it.”
His body shook.
“I can feel being happy with you.”
I rubbed his back.
“You never had to prove it.”
“I needed it.”
“I know.”
“I thought I was making it up. The whistle, your hand, the way you felt.”
“You weren’t.”
He pulled back and put my palm over his heart.
“I felt this in the memory.”
His heartbeat raced beneath my hand.
“Not just knowing you were there. Knowing you were mine.”
My throat closed.
“I was.”
“Are.”
The correction came fast.
I stared at him.
Noah seemed startled by his own certainty.
Then he nodded.
“Are.”
I laughed through tears.
“Yes.”
He kissed me.
The kiss tasted of salt and sleep and relief.
We held each other until the first light reached the curtains.
Then Noah drew back abruptly.
“There’s more.”
“What?”
“The green navigation lamp.”
“You remember buying it?”
“No.”
His face tightened.
“A gift.”
“For whom?”
“Marlowe’s collar.”
I tried to follow.
Then he laughed.
“No. Not the lamp. The brass tag on my keys. Leah had it engraved.”
COME HOME.
“Yes.”
“She gave it to me after I lost my keys twice in one month.”
I could not speak.
“I told her the message was dramatic.”
“You cried in the bathroom.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
His face shone with tears.
“I remember hiding because I cried.”
I held his jaw.
“What else?”
“A launch day. Leah and the girls came.”
“Which launch?”
“The blue cutter. We restored it.”
“That was four years ago.”
“Caleb dropped the champagne bottle before it hit the hull.”
“He denies it.”
“Owen filmed it.”
Noah laughed again.
The memories arrived from different years, different rooms, without sequence.
Marlowe as a younger dog.
A birthday meal.
A power outage.
The night we painted one cabinet yellow inside.
A customer who brought us six pounds of smoked salmon instead of paying on time.
Each memory hurt his head.
I could see the strain building.
“Stop.”
“I can’t.”
“You don’t need to search for more.”
“They’re there.”
“They’ll still be there later.”
“What if they go?”
“They came back once.”
His breathing quickened.
I held his face.
“Noah. Look at me.”
He did.
“I am not going anywhere. The memories do not need to arrive all at once to keep me here.”
His eye closed.
The pressure eased.
“I remember you,” he whispered.
“Yes.”
“Not everything.”
“No.”
“But enough.”
“More than enough.”
He rested against me.
After a while, he laughed softly.
“What?”
“I still hate that jacket.”
I laughed so hard I woke Marlowe.