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“N-no.”
He moves slightly closer, tilting my chin up so he can see my face better. “You did think that.”
“Well, I didn’t know. You didn’t tell me you were leaving.”
“Oh.” That appears to stump him.
It gives me an advantage, so I pursue it. “It seems like common courtesy to tell me where you were going and how long you’d be gone so I wouldn’t spend the whole day wondering if something was wrong or if you were avoiding me.”
His mouth opens. His hand is still gently holding my face. “You were worried?” He sounds utterly stunned.
“Of course I was worried! I’m used to you being around and you weren’t. All day you weren’t here.”
The surprise in his expression is transforming to something resembling gratification. “You missed me.” This comment is more a statement than a question.
“Yes, I missed you. Not that you deserve it.” I sound and feel a bit huffy. “What’s the deal with taking off at the crack of dawn without even a word about being gone?”
He starts to say something, then appears to rethink and says very softly, “I’m not used to anyone caring about my comings and goings.”
“Well, I care. So next time tell me if you’re leaving.”
That fond look is softening his face again, even more obviously than before. It means something to him. That I care about whether he’s here or not. “Okay.” He’s moved his hand so that it’s cupping my cheek, but he seems to realize what he’s doing just then and drops it. “I will.”
“Good.” My cheek feels cold and empty without his hand. “So where were you?”
“I had some meetings in DC, and they ended up lasting all day.” He shifts his weight, looking briefly uncomfortable.
“Oh. What meetings?”
He darts me a little glance. “Work stuff.”
“Oh.” I want to know more. I want to know some specifics about what he does all day and what he did today in particular. But he’s never volunteered any information about his work, so maybe he doesn’t want to share all that with me.
He leans over to pick up his briefcase and gasps, jerking visibly as he straightens up.
“What’s the matter?” I ask, reaching out for him urgently since he’s obviously in pain.
“Nothing,” he mutters, taking a couple of long breaths as he purposefully relaxes his posture.
“Something is wrong. What is it? Is your back acting up again?” My eyes are wide, and I’m thinking of nothing but concern for him.
His gaze shoots over to me. “My back?”
“Y-yeah.” His response is confusing. “Don’t you... Don’t you have a bad back?”
I suddenly realize I have no way of knowing that at all. He’s never mentioned it in my conscious memory. He’s never acted before like he had any back pain.
“Do you remember something?” He’s turned to face me and taken my shoulders in both his hands. His grip is firm but not hard. “Has something come back to you?”
“I don’t... I don’t know.” I’m trying to make sense of the tangle of my mind, but I can’t remember any specifics. Nothing except scattered images and feelings that are completely out of context.
I definitely don’t remember anything about his back.
But there must be something there given his questioning right now.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s all a big mess in my mind.”
He’s already pulling back, reining in his urgency. “Okay. Then don’t worry about it. Maybe more is coming back but you’re not even aware of it.”
