“You’re right.”
“Damn it,” she whispers, catching sight of a furry little head peeking around the edge of the trailer to spy on them.
“He smells the meat.”
Kara’s eyes go wide as Wade grabs a handful of food to toss. “Have you lost your mind!”
“We’ve got enough. Don’t mean we’re taking him with us. The dog deserves a break,” he tries, gently.
Fluffy eyebrows dance above a curious little face as their voyeur calculates his chances, and she sighs in defeat. “Okay.”
She’s not completely cold-hearted. In fact, one of her worst character flaws is perhaps the fact that despite all the heartbreak that’s tried to pound some sense into her, she still wants to care for and nurture someone or something. It’s a quality as much a part of her as all her traumas have become, and the reason she’s so persistent about not helping this dog. The first one had been a part of Wade’s recovery, showing up at the right time to give him something innocent to find comfort with.
This one is different. Kara can’t handle another lossat all. Of any sort. She has reached her trauma limit.
Can’t lose Wade.
Can’t make friends with other survivors and risk losing them, too.
Can’t adopt this dog and lose it later.
Her heart is so much more fragile than she’d ever let on. Thought she was healing and maybe she is, but all it takes is the vague possibility of more tragedy and her pulse flutters in warning of an oncoming panic attack.
This dog hates them anyway. Odds are that won’t change overnight. She’s upset over nothing.
“Hey, hey. We can forget the dog. He’s fine, he survived this long.”
Wade’s already tossed a piece of meat toward the animal who’s laser-focused on it, trying to figure out how to grab the food without getting too close. He scoots in beside her to wrap an arm around her shoulders, rubbing carefully as if she might shatter.
“I’m okay. I’m being silly.” It’s just a dog they can’t even get close to. What kind of crazy person is she that she’s jumped so far ahead to an outcome that may never happen? “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“Nothing’s wrong with you.”
“I think we both know that’s not true,” she admits. “You must think I’m an awful dog hater now.”
“No. I think you’re afraid of getting hurt, and you’ve got every right to feel that way. I get it.”
Of course, he knows. She doesn’t have to tell him that’s she’s too emotionally fucked to handle becoming attached to an animal again because he’s seen all her ups and downs and knows the whole of her story better than anyone.
“I’m afraid of the same thing you are,” he continues, resting his cheek against the top of her head. “Losing anything else.Losing you. I thought that if we ever found each other again, that fear would disappear, but in some ways it’s gotten worse.”
“How do we keep going with that hanging over us?”
“We just do,” he says, simply.
“Ask me a sex question?” she sniffles, feeling his chuckle of amusement. “We still haven’t reached twenty yet.”
She needs something else to think about, but also knows whatelseshe needs. A little warming up is never a bad idea. She can’t jump him now while they’re both stuck in a sad haze, so she tries to shift the tone even if it has to be done abruptly.
“Have you ever thought of me when you were…you know?”
She trails one hand down between her legs, giving herself a firm stroke over her pants. “When I was doing this?”
“Fuck. Yeah.”
“Yes. Often.”
He goes quiet for a moment, his admission soft and slightly embarrassed. “I used to think about you in the cell on the worst nights. I’d imagine you there with me, over me, under me,around me. You’d take all the pain away until all I could feel was you. Then after, I’d feel some kinda way about it. Like I was betraying you by imagining that.”
