Chapter 25 #2
“The song was playing before,” he murmured.
“Before what?”
“Before us.”
I waited.
“At the tavern. We were drunk.”
The memory had not finished opening.
“You asked me to dance,” he said.
“I denied that for years.”
“You did ask.”
“I did.”
“No one else was dancing.”
“No.”
“I thought you were trying to embarrass me.”
“I was trying to touch you where other people could see.”
His lips shifted faintly.
“You stepped on my shoe.”
“You complained for a week.”
“I liked it.”
“The foot injury?”
“You wanting me in public.”
His voice softened.
“I think that’s why the song became ours.”
The insight tightened my chest.
The beginning of our relationship had been private heat and public restraint. Greyhaven was not Denver, but Noah had carried old fear with him—fear learned from family, from strangers, from men who wanted his body in darkness but would not take his hand beneath a streetlight.
That night, I had taken both.
“I remember your face,” he said.
“At the tavern?”
“Yes.”
His breath caught.
“You were frightened too.”
“I was.”
“You kept looking toward the door.”
“Habit.”
“I kissed you in front of everyone.”
“You did.”
“Then we came home and danced again.”
“Under the green lamp.”
The line between his brows eased.
“So the song was there when I chose you.”
“Yes.”
“And when everything was taken.”
My arm tightened around him.
“Not everything.”
“No.”
His hand covered mine.
“It brought me back too.”
The medication began pulling him under.
His words softened.
“How can a song carry all of that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t let me forget it belongs to us.”
“I won’t.”
He fell asleep with my fingers pressed against his chest.
I watched him breathe.
Every few minutes, I checked the time. His color. The rise and fall beneath my hand. His pupils when I woke him gently enough to make him curse at me.
The cursing reassured me.
After forty minutes, he sank into deeper sleep.
I called Caleb from the hall.
“How is he?”
“Sleeping.”
“Is the doctor worried?”
“We’re observing. No emergency signs yet.”
“Owen wants to know whether we should take down the radio.”
“No. Keep it off.”
“What about the work?”
“Close early.”
“We can finish the launch prep.”
“I’ll come down.”
“No.”
His refusal stopped me.
“Caleb.”
“You are staying upstairs.”
“I need to secure the bay.”
“Owen and I understand locks.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I leaned against the wall.
The strain of the afternoon hit me all at once, leaving me heavy to the bone.
“I’ll call before you leave.”
“Fine. We will send photographic proof of every door if that keeps you upstairs.”
“Thank you.”
“You sound terrible.”
“I’m fine.”
He was silent.
Then he said, “No. You’re functioning. That is different.”
The call ended before I could respond.
I returned to bed.
Noah had not moved.
Rain darkened the windows, and the green lamp painted a thin stripe across the floor.
I lay beside him until the two-hour check.
His pain had fallen to four. He opened both eyes. No nausea. No confusion.
He remembered Dr. Whitcomb’s three words.
Lantern.
Pear.
River.
She approved continued observation at home and repeated the emergency signs.
I thanked her.
Then I stood in the kitchen with no idea what to do with my hands.
For weeks, I had believed catastrophe arrived through doors without warning.
A police officer.
A surgeon.
A scream from the workshop.
The immediate danger had passed, yet my body did not understand.
I opened the refrigerator.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
I removed onions, carrots, mushrooms, broth, and beef.
Comfort food.
Something slow.
Something that would fill the apartment with warmth and pretend for a few hours that ordinary life had not become an act of courage.
I browned the meat, spilled flour across the counter, and forgot whether I had salted anything.
Every small mistake felt catastrophic.
By five, stew simmered in the oven.
I showered under water hot enough to redden my skin.
It failed to beat the fear from my shoulders.
When I returned to the bedroom wearing sweatpants and a dark sweatshirt, Noah was awake.
He lay on his side with Marlowe’s head beneath his palm.
Both eyes opened when he saw me.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
I sat on the mattress.
“Pain?”
“Two.”
“Vision?”
“Normal.”
“Nausea?”
“Gone.”
“Numbness?”
“No.”
He caught my hand.
“You asked all of that ten minutes ago.”
“I was in the shower for twenty.”
“Then fifteen.”
“Do you know where you are?”
Noah gave me a tired look.
“In bed with a deeply anxious man.”
“Correct.”
His thumb moved over the inside of my wrist.
“I woke up and heard the shower.”
“Good.”
“I knew you hadn’t left.”
“I told you I wouldn’t.”
“I know.”
He studied me.
“You’re pale.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I showered.”
“That generally adds color.”
I looked away.
Noah pushed himself upright.
“Come here.”
“You need to rest.”
“So do you.”
“I’m fine.”
He let go of my hand.
The withdrawal was small.
Deliberate.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Give me the same answers you give doctors.”
I looked at him.
His hair lay flattened on one side. The scar at his temple was pale beneath it. He had spent the afternoon trapped inside the worst minutes of his life, and he still saw through me with merciless clarity.
“I was frightened,” I said.
“I know.”
“No.”
My voice cracked.
“You don’t.”
He waited.
The tears arrived before I could stop them.
I sat back on my heels, furious that my control had chosen this moment to fail.
Noah moved toward me.
“Cal.”
“I heard you scream.”
The words came out rough.
“For one second, I thought something inside your head had broken again.”
He reached for me.
I caught his hand but could not look at his face.
“I thought I had finally started believing we were safe.”
My chest tightened until breathing hurt.
“The claim was approved. You were working. You were remembering good things. We were making plans.”
A tear struck our joined hands.
“Then a song played and you were back inside the van.”
“I came out.”
“This time.”
The truth sounded cruel.
I hated it as soon as I heard it.
Noah did not flinch.
“Yes.”
I pressed his hand to my forehead.
“I’m always waiting for the next thing.”
His fingers moved into my hair.
“The next headache. The next fall. The next memory. The next phone call telling me another piece of our life is gone.”
“You’ve been waiting since the accident.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you needed me steady.”
“I need you honest.”
A wet laugh escaped me.
“You sound like Dr. Whitcomb.”
“She is influential.”
His thumb stroked my temple.
“Lie down.”
“You shouldn’t be taking care of me.”
“Why?”
“You’re recovering.”
“And you’re hurting.”
“That isn’t the same.”
“No.”
His voice strengthened.
“It does not have to be the same to matter.”
He pulled gently.
I resisted for half a heartbeat.
Then I let him guide me onto the mattress.
Noah lay behind me.
The reversal felt so strange that I nearly turned around.
His arm came across my chest.
His palm settled over my heart.
“Stay,” he said.
I did.
He pressed his face between my shoulder blades.
Marlowe grumbled at the rearrangement and moved to the foot of the bed.
Noah’s hand traveled slowly over my chest.
Not sexual.
Soothing.
My breathing began to follow his.
“I’m not very good at this,” he murmured.
“At what?”
“Knowing what you need.”
“You knew this time.”
“Because you cried.”
“That was a useful clue.”
“I want to know before.”
“You used to.”
The words escaped before I could stop them.
His hand went still.
“Before,” he repeated.
“Not always.”
“But often.”
“Yes.”
Silence opened between us.
“I’m sorry.”
“No.”
I turned in his arms.
“Do not apologize for what the accident took from you.”
“I’m apologizing because everything has become about me.”
“It has to be about you right now.”
“Not every minute.”
“You’re healing.”
“And you’re running the yard, fighting insurance companies, waking with me, carrying me, feeding me, driving me, checking every room before I enter it.”
His eye shone.
“I thought you were made of something stronger than everyone else.”
“I’m not.”
“I know that now.”
His fingertips touched my cheek.
“I should have understood earlier.”
“You were busy surviving.”
“So were you.”
I closed my eyes.
Noah moved closer until our foreheads touched.
“I can’t remember taking care of you before,” he whispered. “But I want to learn.”
“You already are.”
“How?”
“You asked.”
His mouth softened.
“That seems small.”
“It isn’t.”
He kissed the corner of one eye.
Then the other.
“You brought me home when I didn’t know you,” he said. “You slept on that terrible hospital couch. You sat beside me while I treated you like a stranger.”
“I would do it all again.”
“I know.”
His hand covered my heart.
“You do not have to prove it every day.”
The words slipped beneath armor I had forgotten I was wearing.
I opened my eyes.
“I need tonight to be quiet.”
“Then it will be.”
“No yard.”
“No yard.”
“No medical conversations unless something changes.”
“Agreed.”
“No insurance.”
“Done.”
“I want dinner under a blanket and some television show neither of us cares about.”
Noah smiled.
“A retired-person evening.”
“Yes.”
“Can I hold you?”
The question nearly undid me again.
“Yes.”
We built a nest on the couch.
Badly.
The quilt caught on the lamp. Marlowe attempted to occupy the center. Noah criticized the arrangement of the cushions, then became too tired to correct them.
Rain traveled across the harbor windows.
I served stew in wide bowls and turned on a competition program about people restoring old inns. We kept the volume low.
For the first time since Noah came home, I lay in front.
My back settled against his chest.
His arm circled my waist.
He moved his fingers through my hair while I ate.
The position was awkward.
It was wonderful.
I had always been the outer wall.
The broader body.
The arm around him.
The chest beneath his cheek.
The person who stayed awake when fear arrived.
Now Noah’s breath warmed the back of my neck.
His hand brushed my beard.
“Better?”
“Yes.”
“Are you lying?”
“No.”
“Good.”
We finished dinner.
He set the empty bowls on the floor, where Marlowe immediately attempted an inspection.
“No.”
The dog looked personally wounded.
Noah tightened his arm around me.