Pain had begun to pull him under.
I reached for the call button, but he caught my wrist.
“Don’t get anyone yet.”
“You need rest.”
“I know.”
His hand slipped from my wrist into mine.
“Talk.”
“About what?”
He turned carefully onto his right side, facing me. The movement made him wince. I adjusted his pillow without touching his neck.
He kept the photographs in his hand.
“How did we meet?”
My heart struck hard enough to hurt.
“You want the true version or the one where I behaved impressively?”
“True.”
“That seems unfair.”
“Tell me.”
I sat closer.
“You came to the yard for an interview on a Tuesday morning.”
“What was I wearing?”
“A gray jacket that was too thin for the weather. You were carrying a toolbox even though I’d told you the interview wouldn’t involve practical work.”
“Why did I bring it?”
“You didn’t trust other people’s tools.”
“That sounds right.”
“You looked around the workshop before you looked at me. I found that insulting.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“No. I liked that you cared about the work.”
His eye stayed on my face.
“You had grease beneath your thumbnail from repairing your car in the parking lot.”
“What was wrong with it?”
“Loose battery terminal.”
