“Nervous.”
“You told me I wasn’t shy.”
“You weren’t. Those aren’t the same thing.”
He considered the distinction.
“How could you tell?”
“Your hands shook.”
His fingers flexed against his thigh.
“They still do.”
“I know.”
He reached across the center console.
I gave him my hand.
His thumb moved over my knuckles, slow and absentminded. His eyes closed.
“Did you know I loved you then?”
“No.”
“Did you love me?”
“Yes.”
“How long had you known?”
“Long enough for rational judgment to become inconvenient.”
A sleepy laugh rumbled in his chest.
“Cal?”
“Yes?”
“I’m glad we went today.”
“To the clinic?”
“Yes.”
“Me too.”
“I’m also glad it’s finished.”
He was asleep before we reached the harbor road.
I drove at a speed that would have irritated every vehicle behind us if there had been any.
The road curved beside gray water and empty docks. Rain softened the outlines of warehouses, masts, gulls, and cranes. Noah slept with his head tipped toward the window, his mouth slightly open. New hair had begun to cover the scar along his temple.
He looked exhausted.
