“What was it?” she asked.
“It’s called aplastic anemia, which is a rare condition where the blood marrow stops producing new cells. Hers was chronic, started kind of quietly with fatigue and bruising and infections. One day, it all blew up into a semi-permanent residence at the ICU with lots of transfusions and, ultimately, internal bleeding that couldn’t be stopped.”
“Oh.” Her whole body ached just thinking about it, and she put a comforting hand on his arm. “God bless you for going through that.”
“The last three years were sheer hell. I took care of her full-time.” He swallowed. “But she died at home, which was nice, in the bed we used to share. I was holding her hand.”
She closed her eyes, empathetic pain punching her.
“And now?” he added, his voice reed-thin. “Now I want easy. I want fun. I want to sleep in the middle of the bed and not wake up to check if the person next to me is breathing.”
Tessa didn’t respond right away. She watched the sun wink over the horizon, slow and golden and impossibly still. She let her mind replay every word he’d just said, imagined him feeding, loving, bathing, and hand-holding his sick wife.
She couldn’t help realizing all that told her about this man.
“At the risk of not getting paid for my therapy services,” she finally said, forcing herself to keep her voice light. “Can I ask you a question you might not like?”
“They’re the best kind.”
She sat up a little. “Why are you lying to yourself about what you want from a woman?”
He just looked at her, silent.
“I mean, you say you want fun and frivolous, and no commitment or caretaking, just a great time with someone who may or may not stick around, you don’t really care.”
He flinched. “I don’t know if that’s exactly what I said.”
“It’s exactly what I heard.”
“Fair enough,” he conceded. “And you don’t think that’s true?”
“Not one syllable.”
He blinked. “What?”
She was being honest now, and couldn’t stop. “I don’t think you want just fun and easy. No one who’s had a love like you’ve had wants to face the possibility of never having it again. No one who has loved with that much ferocity can exist without something like it in their life.”
He stared at her, silent.
“I get that you don’t think you will want it again. I get that you want to figure out how—or if—you can be alone without losing yourself. You want to believe you can survive without it. I get that.”
He took a shaky breath. “And?”
“And youaresurviving,” she added. “But you’re lonely as hell.”
“Wow.” He exhaled. “Hey, if the event planning thing doesn’t work out for you, you might have a future as a therapist.”
“I just like you, Dusty,” she whispered, the truth bombs obviously still detonating. “And I can see through you and intoyou. Also, if you think any of that made me like you less? You’d be dead wrong. It was like a love potion and I’m…feeling drunk. And, apparently, quite honest.”
For a long moment, he just looked at her, the storm of emotions in his eyes subsiding, leaving a hint of a smile.
“So, you like me, huh?” He inched closer, his smile widening.
She put a hand on his chest, holding him back with a sure touch, not quite ready to give up the fight to the inevitable kiss.
“Why do you say you want a good-time girl, Dusty? Why not go find another real thing? Something that lasts?”
His mouth twisted into something sad and raw as he moved away and let his head drop back. “Now we’re getting to the wound.”
