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He heaved a sigh. “I’m tired, Shauna. Can we talk about it tomorrow?”
“You’re always tired.”
“I’ve been recovering from a gunshot.”
“And I’ve been patient. I’ve held my tongue. But this conversation is long overdue.”
His temper flared. He tossed his jacket onto the nearest chair and placed his hands on his hips. “Thisconversation? It’s that specific? What exactly isthisconversation?”
“The one about your inability to get over this. Which I think is actually anunwillingnessto get over it. You sit for hours and stare at the TV without the audio. Your friends have reached out, but you’ve put them off until they’ve given up on you. When was the last time you and I went out? I can’t even remember.
“You drink way too much, eat way too little. I don’t know how well you sleep, or if you do at all, because we haven’t shared a bed since the night before the shooting.”
“My arm—”
“Your arm, your arm. I’ve heard at least a dozen times that your arm needs time to heal, it’s awkward to sleep with, it aches during the night, and you’d keep me awake trying to find a comfortable position.” She snorted. “You never showed any concern for the comfort level of our positions before.”
“Ha ha. Good one.”
“Your aching arm was a valid excuse for a while, but…” She backed down, took a breath, and asked in a quieter voice, “Are we ever going to have sex again?”
“I finish PT next week.”
“That’s not what I asked you, but as long as you brought it up, do you plan to continue abstention even after PT?”
“I’m not planning anything. I’m taking it one day at a time.”
“Well, this is a day. Today is a day,” she said, making downward stabs with her index finger. Then, once again, she reined in her anger and placed her hand on his shoulder.
“I miss you, Calder. I miss your droll humor, the high you’re on when you come in from a hard workout, your vitality. I miss sex with you.” With uncustomary shyness, she said softly, “It doesn’t have to be a marathon. It doesn’t have to be vigorous. We’ll be careful. And once we’re into it, I’ll do my best to make you forget about your arm, forget about everything. It’ll do you good. Leave it to me.” Smiling suggestively, she reached for his crotch.
He caught her by the wrist. “I can’t get my dick straight until I get my head straight.”
“You can’t get an erection?”
“It’s not physical. I can get it up. I just—”
She jerked her hand out of his grasp. “You just don’t want to.”
He breathed in deeply, exhaled slowly. “What I don’t want to do is pretend to you that everything is back to normal and that I’m all right, when I’m not. I can’t…” He looked around at the atmospheric setting she’d created and spread his arms wide. “This is great, but I can’t enjoy it. I can’t enjoy anything right now.”
“You could if you would allow yourself to. God forbid that you resume your life, our life. And heaven help you if you actually enjoyed it. If you did, think of all the guilt you’d have to bear.”
“Yes. I would. You’re finally getting it.”
She deflated, folded her arms across her middle, and looked down at the floor. “I appreciate your honesty at least. Survivor’s guiltisa thing. It was the topic of one of my post-shooting reports. I interviewed that psychologist at the hospital. You should talk to someone about how to get over it.”
“I did.”
She raised her head and looked at him with surprise.
“I went to Dr. Sinclair’s group therapy session today. I didn’t talk. I listened. Believe me, you and I aren’t the only ones grappling with all this. Everyone there is finding it hard to get back on track.”
“Maybe I should go with you to one of the sessions.”
She’d offered with sincerity, but he almost laughed out loud. He couldn’t envision her in the midst of that bereaved group. Besides, he wouldn’t trust her not to be calculating which of them would make the best human-interest story. As someone was pouring their heart out, she would be thinking Emmy.
He said, “Thanks for the offer, but I’m not going back.”
