“What?”
“I want to see the upstairs.”
“The stairs may not be safe.”
“Then I decide after I see.”
“All right.”
“And Marlowe.”
“He may knock you over.”
“Then hold him.”
“I will.”
Noah rested his head against the wheelchair.
His eye closed.
“So I go with you,” he murmured.
I stared at him.
The words were not a declaration.
They were not the return of vows.
They were a frightened man choosing the place where he felt safest.
It was enough to split my heart open.
I reached across the small table, stopping before I touched him.
Noah opened his eye.
Then he placed his hand in mine.
“You’ll be there?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“All night?”
“As close as you want.”
He nodded.
His fingers settled around mine.
Outside the window, the harbor lay beneath a clearing sky, every wet surface catching the weak afternoon light.
Noah did not remember the life we had built above it.
He did not remember choosing the apartment, claiming the window side of the bed, or bringing home an aging dog because he could not leave the shelter without him.
He did not remember loving me.
