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I shuffled out of the bathroom, wearing Caleb’s T-shirt and a pair of sweats, and sat on the bed next to Caleb. He had his hands folded in his lap, staring straight ahead with a completely blank expression. There was a long, awkward silence, in which I speculated that he would finally decide I was too much trouble to deal with and send me on my way. And part of me thought maybe it would be better that way. Maybe it would hurt less in the long run.
Maybe I should take the choice away from him. Maybe I should get up and just start packing. I’d spent too much time procrastinating. I needed to stop this madness and get to Anchorage, start over, and Caleb . . . Caleb was still staring straight ahead, which was starting to worry me.
“So back at the station, you weren’t really talking to me, huh?” he finally asked.
I shook my head.
“You were talking to him? The guy who gives you nightmares?”
I nodded, not able to look up at him. “I never got around to counseling. I read all of the right self-help books, worked through them as instructed. I was offered anonymous talk therapy over the phone with a specialized counselor, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. Somehow, admitting what happened to me, making it real, seemed to make all of the progress I’d made unreal.”
“I know you have some stuff in your past that you don’t want to tell me about. And I’ve tried not to pry. But eventually, Rabbit, you’re going to have to talk to me about it.”
“Do you really want a blow-by-blow account?” I asked. “Do you want to look at my journal? There’s an entertaining read, or at least it was before I realized he was reading it. Giving me even that tiny bit of privacy was just too much for him. Do you want me to tell you I was some sweet, naive girl who never suspected a thing? Because I did suspect—a lot—but I just couldn’t figure a way out of it.”
“No. I’m not asking you to share anything with me you don’t want to,” he insisted. “For now, you should know that I’m not whoever you were yelling at. I wouldn’t ever lay a hand on you in anger. I may bluster and fuss, but I wouldn’t try to take your choices away. I kind of like that you’re always trying to get around me to do what you want. It’s what makes you interesting and frustrating and, well, you. I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
I nodded, resenting him for being so damned understanding. I didn’t know how to respond to this. I knew what to do when someone was yelling or threatening. I didn’t know what to do in the face of respectful boundaries. God, that was sad.
I slipped an arm around him. He tucked my head under his chin and kissed my hair. “Also, you have to stop kicking me in the shin. It’s emasculating.”
A snort rippled up from my lungs, and I covered it with a cough. “I’m sorry. There’s no excuse for it.”
“I know.”
He ruffled my hair, his hand lingering on top of my head. I leaned into it, tucking my face against his chest. He wrapped the other arm around me and secured me there.
“I’m sorry I raised my voice,” he said. “I should have known better. You showed all those skittish signs. I knew you wouldn’t tolerate that.”
“So I’m a walking advertisement for post-traumatic stress. Awesome,” I muttered.
“No, the signs are pretty subtle, but I watch you closely.”
“That doesn’t make me feel any better.”
“Sorry.”
I looked up at him. “Can we just go to bed and pretend you’re not still crazy angry with me?”
“I’m not ‘crazy’ angry with you. I’m ‘sane person’ angry with you. And we’re going to have to talk about your bleeding-heart tendencies at some point,” he told me.
“I know.” I sighed, flopping down on the threadbare pillows. “But not tonight.”
He scooted up on the bed, under the blankets, and curled his body around mine. He rested his chin on my shoulder and draped an arm around my middle. I closed my eyes and sighed as the heat from his skin seeped into mine.
“My name’s not Anna.”
He gave me a squeeze. “I figured that out a while ago.”
There was another long, silent pause. He wasn’t going to ask me. He was waiting for me to tell him myself, to make the choice to share that part of me.
“It’s Tina,” I told him. “Christina, if you want to be technical about it. But I was named after my mother, and we couldn’t have two Christinas in the house. And I refused to be called Chrissie. Since then, I’ve been called Anna, Melissa, Brandy, Lisa, and Tess. I was Anna the longest.”
“What do you want me to call you?”
“When you’re not calling me Rabbit, you mean?”
He laughed into my skin, a canine whickering noise that was more wolf than man.
