He bowed his forehead against mine.
The contact was careful, awkward around braces and seat belts.
It was the closest we had been since the accident.
“I remembered you singing badly,” he whispered.
“I sing very well.”
“You don’t.”
“Apparently brain damage has affected your judgment.”
He laughed through tears.
My thumb moved once against his skin.
Noah did not pull away.
For several breaths, we remained there.
Then he settled against the seat.
The song ended.
Neither of us spoke while the next one began.
I drove slowly.
Every brake light tightened my body. Every truck made me check Noah’s face.
He watched the road.
His right hand remained on the center console, close enough that our fingers touched when I shifted gears.
“You all right?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you want the music off?”
“No.”
“The route is about fifteen minutes.”
“I know.”
My head turned before I could stop it.
Noah looked startled.
“What?”
“You know?”
He stared through the windshield.
“No.”
