Chapter 26
NOAH
The accident lived differently inside me after I remembered it.
Before, it had been a locked room beneath the house.
I knew it existed because the walls shook whenever I passed over it. I heard sounds through the floor. Metal. Rain. A man shouting. Three knocks. I dreamed of dark water and pressure against my chest without understanding why.
Then the song opened the door.
For several minutes, I had been inside the van again.
Not watching.
There.
The steering wheel bucking beneath my hands. The windshield going white. Steel crossing the road where no steel should have been. The terrible floating moment after the tires lost the asphalt.
Pain arrived with memory.
Then it left.
The next morning, I could look at the scene without feeling my bones break again.
I remembered turning the wheel toward the rock.
I remembered thinking about the car behind me.
I remembered trying to breathe after the van stopped moving.
And beneath all of it, I remembered Reid.
Not his face.
The certainty of him.
I had believed the green light belonged to him because some part of me knew that if there was a path into the dark, he would take it.
I woke with his head on my chest.
That was new.
His body stretched along mine, one arm heavy over my waist. His beard scratched the skin above my heart. His hair had fallen across his forehead.
He looked younger asleep.
Less guarded.
I moved my fingers through his hair.
Reid stirred.
His arm tightened.
“Head?” he murmured without opening his eyes.
“Fine.”
“Pain?”
“One.”
“Nausea?”
“No.”
“Memory?”
“Still there.”
His eyes opened.
Fear flashed in his eyes before he hid it.
I touched his cheek.
“It isn’t hurting me.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
He searched my face.
“That song—”
“Not today.”
“We can remove it from every device.”
“No.”
His brow tightened.
“It was ours before it was the accident’s.”
He became still.
“I don’t want to give it away.”
“You don’t need to hear it again soon.”
“I know.”
I traced the line of his eyebrow.
“Tell me about the dance.”
“At the tavern?”
“Yes.”
“We were drunk.”
“You mentioned that.”
“You wore a black shirt too tight across the shoulders.”
“That sounds like your fault.”
“You chose it.”
“Then it was the right choice.”
He smiled.
“The place was crowded. You hated crowds.”
“Still do.”
“You stood beside the wall criticizing everyone’s electrical work.”
“At a tavern?”
“You could see exposed conduit near the ceiling.”
“Was it bad?”
“Terrible.”
“Then I was right.”
He kissed the center of my chest.
“The band played the song. You said it was the only good thing they’d done all night.”
“Harsh.”
“You were trying to impress me.”
“Did it work?”
“Unfortunately.”
His smile warmed against my skin.
“I asked you to dance.”
“I remember.”
“You said there wasn’t a dance floor.”
“There wasn’t.”
“I said we were standing on one.”
“That sounds like you.”
“You looked toward the door.”
I remembered that too.
Not visually.
The feeling.
A public room.
Men at tables.
The old instinct to calculate who might object if Reid touched me.
“I almost said no.”
“You did say no.”
“What changed?”
“I walked away.”
I laughed.
“You manipulated me.”
“I accepted your answer.”
“That is less romantic.”
“You caught my hand before I took two steps.”
Something loosened in my chest.
“I remember that.”
Reid lifted his head.
“What?”
“Your wrist.”
I closed my eye.
“The watch you wore then. Brown leather. Scratched face.”
His breath stopped.
“I grabbed it.”
“Yes.”
“And pulled you back.”
“Yes.”
The memory offered nothing more.
It did not need to.
I opened my eye.
“You were scared.”
“Of dancing?”
“Of me letting go.”
Reid looked down.
“I had wanted you for months.”
“Months?”
“You were stubborn.”
“You employed me.”
“That was also a problem.”
I ran my thumb along his cheek.
“You kept going anyway.”
“I am persistent.”
“You are.”
His gaze softened.
“You wanted to attend the gathering today.”
“I do.”
“After yesterday?”
“Especially after yesterday.”
He shifted onto one elbow.
“Explain.”
“I remembered the accident. Elias has lived with it every day without knowing what I remembered.”
“You do not owe him details.”
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
I looked toward the pale light at the curtains.
“I want to go because I chose to go before the song played. I don’t want fear deciding I can’t now.”
Reid studied me.
“That sounds like Dr. Whitcomb.”
“She’s infected all of us.”
His mouth curved.
“Do you feel strong enough?”
“Yes.”
“Your definition or mine?”
“Mine.”
“Concerning.”
“We stay an hour.”
“Ninety minutes maximum.”
“An hour.”
“Seventy-five.”
“Fine.”
“And the chair comes.”
I sighed.
“The chair comes.”
Elias and Miriam lived fifteen miles inland, where the coastal spruce gave way to open fields and low orchards.
Their house sat at the end of a gravel lane lined with pear trees. Wind chimes moved beneath the porch. A long red barn stood beyond the garden, its roof patched in three different colors.
Cars filled the grass beside the drive.
I looked at Reid.
“You said small gathering.”
“I repeated what Miriam told me.”
“Never trust a woman who brings cardamom bread to a first visit.”
“That lesson came late.”
Children ran across the yard before we opened the car doors.
A spotted dog followed them carrying what might once have been a stuffed duck.
Miriam appeared on the porch wearing an apron over dark pants.
“You came.”
Her pleasure warmed me.
“We said we would,” I answered.
“That does not always mean people come.”
Her gaze moved briefly over my face.
Not checking for damage.
Checking because she cared.
“How are you today?”
“Good.”
“Truth?”
“Tired already.”
“Excellent. We have chairs.”
Elias came from behind the house carrying a tray of raw vegetables.
He had driven.
I noticed before he said anything.
“You got behind the wheel.”
His smile was nervous.
“Seven miles yesterday. Fifteen today.”
“How was it?”
“Awful.”
“But you did it.”
“I did.”
Miriam took the tray from him.
“He pulled over twice.”
“Once.”
“Twice.”
“The second time was for coffee.”
“At the end of our driveway?”
Elias looked at me.
“She has become difficult since retirement.”
“I suspect she practiced earlier.”
Miriam smiled and led us through the house.
The place felt crowded before we reached the kitchen.
Family photographs covered an entire wall. Children at graduations. Adults in work clothes. Weddings. A woman in a military uniform. Two men holding a baby wrapped in yellow. Elias younger, darker-haired, standing beside a truck.
No photograph seemed more important than another.
At the back of the house, double doors opened onto a broad yard.
Long tables stood beneath canvas awnings. People sat in mismatched chairs. Someone tended a smoker near the barn. The air smelled of wood fire, citrus, and roasted meat.
Conversations quieted when we appeared.
Not completely.
Enough that I felt every face turn.
I braced for judgment before anyone offered it.
Reid’s hand touched the base of my neck.
Warm.
Grounding.
Miriam raised her voice.
“This is Noah, and this is Reid. They are not a public meeting, so don’t interrogate them.”
A woman near the table laughed.
“You say that after gathering the entire county?”
“I invited immediate family.”
“Your definition includes the mail carrier.”
“He comes hungry.”
The woman stood and came toward us.
“I’m Celia. Elias’s oldest.”
She shook Reid’s hand, then mine.
Her gaze moved to my cane.
Not my scars.
“Dad said you repair boats.”
“Electrical systems mostly.”
“My husband has a sailboat that has tried to kill him through wiring twice.”
“Then your husband has tried to kill himself through wiring.”
A man at the table raised one hand.
“That seems unfair.”
“Do you use wire nuts aboard?” I asked.
His hand lowered.
Everyone in the yard laughed.
The attention eased.
Elias introduced people in a sequence I could not hope to retain.
Celia and her husband, Mark.
Their son Theo, who had carved the small boat.
Miriam’s sister June.
A neighbor named Grace who arrived at every family meal despite living three towns away.
Two teenage girls who were apparently cousins and best friends and communicated mostly through facial expressions.
A broad man called Sam, whom Elias introduced as “ours, though not by paperwork.”
Sam rolled his eyes.
“He found me sleeping behind a bus station when I was seventeen and told me I looked underfed.”
“You were.”
“He brought me home for dinner and forgot to send me away.”
Miriam touched his shoulder as she passed.
“We did not forget.”
The casual words brought a tightness to my throat.
Reid noticed.
His fingers found mine.
We sat near the end of one table where I could see the house, the car, and the open space beyond the garden.
Not trapped.
Reid always chose places like that now without announcing why.
Theo approached carrying a wooden tray.
He was tall for twelve, all elbows and serious eyes.
“Did you like the boat?”
“I did.”
“The keel is crooked.”
“So is the floor in our sail loft.”
“I can make another.”
“You don’t need to.”
“I want to.”
I looked toward Elias.
His face had softened.
Theo set the tray down. It held glasses of lemonade and something dark red.
“Blackberry tea,” he said. “Grandma made it.”
I took lemonade.
Reid chose tea.
Theo looked at my cane.
“Did the accident make your leg shorter?”
“The injury made one side feel shorter. The bones are still the same length.”
“Does metal hurt when it’s cold?”
“Sometimes.”
“Can airport machines see it?”
“Probably.”
“Do you remember the crash?”
The table went quiet.
A woman across from us opened her mouth, likely to stop him.
I answered first.
“Yes.”
Theo’s serious expression did not change.
“Is that bad?”
“Yesterday it was.”
“And today?”
I looked at Elias.
He had gone pale.
“Today it’s only something that happened.”
The boy considered.
“Dad says memories change when you tell them.”
“Who’s your dad?”
He pointed to Mark, the dangerous sailor.
“Is he a doctor?”
“History teacher.”
“That explains it.”
Mark laughed.
Theo remained unsmiling.
“Are you going to tell it?”
The question might have angered me from an adult.
From him, it felt honest.
“Not all of it.”