“Your apartment.”
He looked toward me.
“His?”
“Ours,” I said.
The word escaped before I could make it neutral.
Noah’s expression closed.
I corrected myself. “The apartment where you’ve been living.”
Dr. Whitcomb nodded slightly, encouraging the adjustment.
Noah touched the edge of the photograph with one finger.
“Dog?”
“Marlowe,” Leah said. “He’s yours and Reid’s.”
“Don’t remember him.”
“He remembers you,” I said.
Noah looked at me.
I wished I could take the sentence back. It carried too much need.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
The apology shattered me more efficiently than anger could have.
“You have nothing to apologize for.”
His gaze dropped.
Dr. Whitcomb changed the subject, asking about his job in Denver.
Noah answered with increasing certainty. He remembered the warehouse layout and the names of supervisors. He remembered an apartment with unreliable heating. He remembered driving west to see Leah one Thanksgiving.
Then she asked, “Were you dating anyone?”
His eye sharpened.
“No.”
“Had you dated men before?”
A long silence followed.
Leah looked down at her hands.
Noah’s jaw flexed. “Why?”
“I’m asking because relationships can help us establish the timeline.”
He stared at the blanket. “A few.”
