Idon'tsay anything. I have nothing that will help.
“The man whose whole job was keeping the lines open.And I cut them.”
“Do you think he'd take a call now?”I ask quietly.“If you made one.”
A shadow moves across his face. “I don't know. I haven't let myself think about it.”
He looks at the picturefor a longmoment.
“That’sthe team.That’sthe day.That’swhy Ihaven’tslept through the night in nine years, why I came up here, and why I—”His voice has gone to nothing.“That’s why I haven’t let myself want anything.”
I don’t move. I don’t say anything. I just keep my hand on his where it’s clenched into a fist, and I wait.
Somewhere down the slope,the cabin I inherited sits in ruins.But the foundations are strong.I’m going to fix the cabin,and ifhe'llletme, I’m going to stand next to him while he fixes the rest.
His beautiful, shadowed gray eyes find mine.“I’mtelling you because you said you wanted to know me. BecauseI’vebeen carrying this for nine years, and because this morning at four a.m., I almost left a woman who has earned the truth from me.”
“They were yours,”I murmur.“Bones and Wire.”
“They are mine. Present tense, Tess. That’s the problem.”
“That’s not a problem, Sullivan. That’s love.”
He looks at me.“How is itlove?”
I stand and circle the table, climb onto his lap, andcuphis face.“Youdon’tstop loving people when they die. Carrying their memoryisn’ta wound.It’san honor.”
Sullivanwraps his arms around me and breathes out a long, broken breath.He turns his head and presses his mouth to the side of my neck where the flannel collargapes.
We sit at his kitchen table in the cold morning while the wind moves the pines outside.
Later—an hour,maybe two—he makes more coffee, and I let him. Wedon’ttalk. The silence is solid and warm, filled with everything he said earlier and everythinghe hasn’t found the words for yet
He’sbehind me at the counter. I sense him before he touches me—his heat, his hesitation. Then, his forehead rests against the curve of my neck as his arms wrap around me, and I stop breathing.
“I’m sorry,”he says into my collarbone.“I had a whole speech.”
“What was the speech?”
“Goodbye.”
My laugh is small and painful. “Yeah, I figured.”
His arms clamp down, and I hold his hands because if he pulls back, Iwouldn’tsurvive the pain in any way I know.
“I’m not going to say it.”
“Good.”
He exhales against my skin. I can feel the words stacking up in his chest, the effort of them, the way his jaw moves against my shoulder before he speaks.
“Five years,”he says.“Ihaven'tlet myself—”He stops and tries again.“I don’t know how to want things out loud yet.”
Yet.That word sits between us like a door left open on purpose.
“You’re doing fine, Sullivan.”
His hands press against my ribs. I feel my heartbeat push back against his palms and think:he can feel that. He knows.
