Ask about driving.
Ask when I can work.
Ask what happens if memory never returns.
That final question sat on the page like a hole.
I added another beneath it.
Ask what Reid wants now, not before.
My hand ached.
I put down the pen.
The spare-room door stood open at the end of the hall.
Reid still used it, though he had begun sleeping in our bed after I asked him to stay. His clothes remained folded on the old desk. His shaving kit was in the bathroom, but his phone charger and work papers still lived in the small room.
He had not moved back fully.
Perhaps he was waiting for me to invite him.
Perhaps he was protecting himself.
I wanted to know more about him.
The journals and photographs told me what we had done together. They did not tell me how Reid lived when he was alone.
I transferred to the chair and drove down the hall.
The spare room smelled faintly of him.
The foldout couch occupied nearly the entire floor. A desk stood against the wall, crowded with invoices, marine catalogs,a broken printer, and a framed photograph turned toward the wall.
I lifted it.
Reid stood beside a much younger Caleb and Owen in front of the newly painted yard doors. All three were wet from rain and grinning. Reid’s hair was darker. His face looked less guarded.
On the back, in black ink, someone had written:
First day under the new name.
He had built this place.
I knew that fact.
Seeing the younger version of him made it real.
A dark sweater lay folded over the desk chair.
I picked it up.
His scent remained in the collar.
The need to be near him came over me with enough force to be embarrassing.
I sat on the edge of the foldout bed.
