I looked behind him at the mahogany headboard, and the quilt his grandmother sewed him as a baby. “Did you get a new mattress?”
A small smile tugged at his mouth. “No.”
I groaned. “So you’ve still got that amazing one?”
His arms crossed. “I do.”
“Dammit,” I muttered. His mattress was amazing. Perfectly molded to fit his body and anyone else that laid down. But I suspected it smelled like Anderson and the last thing I needed was to be fully enveloped in his scent. “Take the bed, Thompson. I’ll be fine on the couch.”
A beat held between us and for the first time since arriving, I felt the old sense of comradery. I escaped to the bathroom before I suffocated on ancient history.
13
Heaven
The couch wasn’t just uncomfortable, it was basically a torture device.
I flopped on my back, then my side, then my stomach.
I stared across the room, toward Anderson’s door where the most comfortable mattress in the world cradled him like a warm hug.
His room was also pitch dark with blackout curtains. He didn’t have the glare of parking lot lights peering in the living room windows like a beacon. God, I was so tired.
I rolled over again. Then once more. I settled on my stomach.
I heard a creak, then the padding of footsteps, and closed my eyes.
“I know you’re awake.”
With my eyes still shut, I said, “I’m not awake.”
“You’ve been tossing and turning for an hour.” I peeked at his crossed arms and long body leaning against the doorframe. “The leather squeaks. Come on, let’s switch.”
“I’m fine, Anderson.”
We stare at one another in the faint light, caught in an impasse. I saw the wariness in his eyes, the reluctance of having me in his home—in his life. “The last thing I wanted was for you to hate me,” I blurted.
“What?” He blanched. “I don’t hate you, Heaven.”
“You’ve barely spoken a full sentence since I got here. Not at the hospital. Not in the car. Not here.”
His jaw tightened. “Maybe I don’t know what to say.”
“A lack of words has never been an issue for you, Anderson. You’re mad. You hate me—I betrayed you somehow, I’m sure.” He’d alluded to it in the hospital hallway when he threatened me about running again.
What he says next takes me by surprise. “I don’t hate you, Heaven, I hate this.”
“Hate what? If not me, then what?”
“The tension between us. The…distance…whatever it is.” His eyes averted. “I don’t think we should talk about this. Not now.”
“Why not?” I glanced around the dark room. “We’ve got time.”
He doesn’t speak, but his eyes flicked to mine and I caught a glimpse of something I’d seen before. Worry. For me.
“You’re afraid I’ll get upset?” I asked.
“I think we’re both under a lot of stress.”