I open my mouth, then snap it closed. Try again. “Are you serious?”
He looks up and just stares at me, a tired expression on his face.
My chair screeches as I push it back and march around the table. I know better than to hug him from behind, so I lean in his side and put my arms around him. He looks startled and stays still as I hold him.
“You were not joking,” I murmur into his shoulder. “You were serious.”
“I don’t joke about such things,” he says, then reaches and encircles my waist, pulling me into his lap. “Why would I?”
I shake my head and tighten my hold, resting my head on his shoulder. I feel like he came close to dying, came close to giving up many times. Like there is so much pain inside him, and I’ve only just scratched the surface.
I hope he won’t give up. I hope he’ll let me hold him when he feels like he’s falling.
“What about you?” he asks after a while. “I think my folder may be incomplete. What do you hate?”
He wants to change the topic, and I let him without protest.
“I hate pearls,” I whisper. “I hate high places. And I hate hospitals.” I spent so much time in them that I’d rather avoid them.
“I’ll pen that in, then,” he says and rocks me slightly, back and forth—as if I’m the one who needs comforting after what he told me.
Maybe I am.
***
I’ve only been staying with Zane for three days now, but we already have a routine. A pleasant routine. He makes coffee in the morning. I have dinner ready when he comes home at night. We kiss, we explore each other’s bodies, learning how and where to touch. Where not to touch and what not to do.
It’s been pretty simple so far. He’ll touch me with his fingers or mouth until I come, and then he’ll enter me until we both come. Like a tried recipe, the positions change marginally on occasion. Zane likes routine. He likes safe. No surprises.
Although it’s odd that we don’t sleep in the same bed, it feels good to see him smile. He has a beautiful smile that lights up his eyes. He really should smile more.
Then it’s Saturday morning, and he’s not smiling. At all. As I wander into the kitchen, I find him slouched in his chair, his cell in his hand. It’s off, the screen black.
“Hey.” I slide into the seat next to him. I’m dressed in another of his T-shirts and normally—in the routine we’ve established—this is something that drives him crazy.
Not today. He nods but says nothing. Doesn’t look up.
Worried, I squeeze his arm. “Are you all right?”
He nods again, an automatic motion. “Yeah. I have to go.”
I blink. “Go where?”
He frowns, then pockets the phone. He’s dressed in T-shirt and long jeans. Ready to leave. “Visit my sister.”
“Okay.” I wet my lips, trying to think. “Can I come with you?”
“No.”
His curt reply stings. But why should it? It’s not like I’m his girlfriend or anything. We don’t even sleep together in the same bed. “I could help.”
“You can’t.” He pushes off the table and stands up, his face set in hard lines. “Got to go.”
“Wait.” I scramble to my feet, panicking. “Where will you be? Are you sure I shouldn’t come? I could drive, wherever it is, and I could bring you coffee and sandwiches, and—”
“I said no.” His gaze softens for a moment. “Not this time.”
My heart hurts, but I force myself to nod.