“You knew this time.”
“Because you cried.”
“That was a useful clue.”
“I want to know before.”
“You used to.”
The words escaped before I could stop them.
His hand went still.
“Before,” he repeated.
“Not always.”
“But often.”
“Yes.”
Silence opened between us.
“I’m sorry.”
“No.”
I turned in his arms.
“Do not apologize for what the accident took from you.”
“I’m apologizing because everything has become about me.”
“It has to be about you right now.”
“Not every minute.”
“You’re healing.”
“And you’re running the yard, fighting insurance companies, waking with me, carrying me, feeding me, driving me, checking every room before I enter it.”
His eye shone.
“I thought you were made of something stronger than everyone else.”
“I’m not.”
“I know that now.”
His fingertips touched my cheek.
“I should have understood earlier.”
“You were busy surviving.”
“So were you.”
I closed my eyes.
