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But it’s so hard to look at him. Intensity radiates out from those sharp brown eyes, gone to a deep, rich chocolate swirling with emotion. I know he’s spent eight days holding back.
I’ve spent eight days finding my way back.
“If this is too much -- ”
I turn to him. “It’s fine. I – it’s a little unreal.”
“I know.”
“I can’t stop feeling naked all the time.”
“Is that why you did a body check when the doctor was here?”
“Body check?”
“You looked at yourself. Looked down. Like in a dream, where you realize you’re naked in public.”
“You have those dreams?”
“Everyone has those dreams, Lindsay.” His face softens, going sad. “And after what you went through with the live feed in Tiffany’s apartment and being on all the major cable channels like that, in the middle of trauma in a life-or-death situation, I’d be surprised if you weren’t constantly body checking. Your brain has to weed out the stress imprint from what happened. It’ll take time.”
I am so tired. A yawn escapes me. He doesn’t react.
“I keep having this nightmare,” I say, surprising myself. Sharing the weird dreams isn’t what I want to do. Not consciously, at least. I guess a different part of me has taken the internal steering wheel.
“About being naked in public?” he asks.
“More than that. You’re in the dream. I’m on this stage -- ”
“And I’m in the audience,” he chokes out, astonishment lighting his features.
I jolt. “Yes.”
“How did you know?” we say in unison.
The bleak blanket that has been my only source of warmth and comfort, the heavy, weighted cloth that I’ve carried as a burden these days, turns to lightweight down, to sunshine in woven form, featherlight and exquisite.
“Drew? What did you say at the end of the dream? When you picked up your phone?” I beg, my voice desperate, my plea profound.
His mouth trembles with emotion, his eyes big and loving.
“I said, ‘She’s back. Lindsay is back.’”
Chapter 15
Drew
We just let time do its thing for a few minutes. As I stare at her, unblinking, my face muscles relax. My eyes narrow. The meaning behind it all doesn’t matter any longer.
The insanity of the past two weeks fades as Lindsay’s features come into true focus, sharp and acute, diffuse and ethereal. I hold my space, knowing she needs hers.
She rotates in the bed, sitting up slightly, and leans in toward me. I’m still holding her hand.
“Can you forgive me?” she asks.
She might as well have slapped me.
“For what?”
