He doesn’t reply.
“I keep seeing the guy’s face,” I say abruptly, not sure where the words came from. “The one who grabbed me. Not clearly. More like an impressionist painting. The shapes and colors are there, but the details are hazy.”
Henry sighs. “I’m sorry.”
“Stop saying that,” I reply. “You didn’t put him there.”
“I’m still sorry.”
I take a deep breath in. “I didn’t go out with Lance because I didn’t want to use him as a crutch. That wouldn’t be fair to him or to me.” Or to Henry, but I keep that to myself.
“Good,” Henry says. “But I get it. You’ve experienced a traumatic event. And sometimes it’s okay to lean on someone else.” A shadow of a grin crosses his face. “Not him, of course. You can do better.”
A laugh escapes me. Henry is making jokes. Well, not jokes, exactly, but he’s changed. The accident changed him. Or was it before the accident? Because he’d already decided to come after me…
I stand. “I should shower. I’m kind of disgusting.”
He scans me from head to toe. “You look perfect to me.”
I give him a quick grin and head back to the master bedroom. The master bath is of course both rustic and decadent. The air smells faintly of cedar and lavender. A rain showerhead glints behind glass panels, and the towels are thick enough to pass for blankets.
I turn on the shower, let it heat while I peel off my clothes.
When I step under the softly pelting water, I close my eyes and sigh.
Again, I empty my mind, like I did outside.
Except all I can think about is Henry in here with me. He already showered while I was outside, emptying my mind.
I soap myself up, rinse, turn off the tap, and stare at myself in the fogged mirror until a face emerges. It’s the image of a woman who’s been kissed breathless.
When I come back out, Henry’s at the stove, frying eggs. He glances over. “Breakfast for dinner?”
“Sounds great.”
We eat at the table this time instead of the counter.
The eggs are perfect, and the toast is sourdough with peach jam. I take a bite.
“Oh my God,” I say. “This might be the best thing I’ve ever put into my mouth.”
“Should I be insulted?” he says, his eyes sparkling.
My cheeks warm. “Of course not. But my God… What is this?”
“It’s my mom’s spiced peach jam, made from our Western Slope peaches.”
“Oh, yeah. Angie, or it might have been Sage, told me about that. I didn’t get a chance to taste it while I was there.”
“It’s great,” he agrees. “Though I wouldn’t say it’s the best thing I’ve ever had in my mouth.”
My cheeks warm further.
After we finish, he returns to his laptop.
I pull out my tablet and the stack of instrument diagrams I insisted on bringing. For a while we don’t talk. I tie invisible knots in my head.
“Tabs?” he says after a stretch.
