“Images that show his current life clearly. Home. Work. Friends. You together, but not sexualized.”
“We don’t take sexual pictures.”
A hint of amusement touched her face. “Many people do.”
“I’m not many people.”
“No. I’m beginning to understand that.”
She asked about Noah’s family, work history, friendships, and life in Denver. I answered until the chronology blurred.
At twenty-seven, Noah had been closeted at work, estranged from his father, and convinced he would never return to Greyhaven.
He had not met me.
He had not learned to sail.
He had not adopted Marlowe with me from the county shelter.
He had not stood in our kitchen one winter night and said, almost angrily, that he loved me because admitting it terrified him.
Dr. Whitcomb took notes.
“Was he open about his sexuality at twenty-seven?”
“Privately. Not at work.”
“Did he accept it?”
“He knew who he was. He didn’t always believe it was safe to be known.”
“That may shape his response to your relationship.”
“I know.”
“He may experience being told he has a male partner as exposure rather than reassurance.”
I closed my eyes.
I remembered the first time Noah held my hand outside the yard. We had been walking through the Saturday market. His fingers brushed mine twice before he finally caught them.
He had looked straight ahead, jaw tight.
I asked whether he wanted me to let go.
He said, “Don’t you dare.”
Years later, he reached for me without thinking.
Now even that courage might be gone.
When we entered his room, Noah was awake.
The bandage had been reduced, revealing a shaved strip along the left side of his head and a curved line of surgical staples. Bruises darkened his cheek and throat. His left armrested in a rigid brace. The blankets were tented above his pelvis to keep pressure off the injury.
He looked exhausted before we began.
Dr. Whitcomb introduced herself and explained that she wanted to ask questions to understand what his brain was doing.
