Then he said, “She asked whether sex was as good the second time.”
The words settled heavily between us.
I kept my face neutral.
“She was joking.”
“I know.”
“She may have forgotten that you—”
“I know.”
Noah stood too fast.
The room shifted beneath him.
I reached out.
He stepped away from my hand.
“I’m fine.”
“Noah.”
“I said I’m fine.”
He managed three steps before stopping with his back to me.
His right hand covered his eye.
“I don’t know.”
I rose but did not approach.
“What don’t you know?”
“Any of it.”
His voice had roughened.
“I know we had sex. I saw the photographs. I read our messages. I asked you questions in the hospital.”
“You did.”
“But I don’t remember.”
“No.”
“I remember wanting you before we got together. Some of it. The kitchen. The green lamp. Kissing you.”
He looked over his shoulder.
“Then there’s nothing.”
I waited.
He turned away again.
