“We’ll make it okay,” she soothed, feeling an overwhelming need to take away his pain. Before she could stop herself, she rolled toward him, reaching out to clasp his body. He had warned her before not to turn on the light. This time, she was the one who would rather not take the chance of finding out that he was an illusion.
But how could he be? How could an illusion feel the pain she had heard in his cry? She couldn’t answer the question, but she knew it was better not to try and see him, better to let her other senses take over.
At first, he held himself rigid in her arms, but her hands seemed to relax him. As he became more pliant, she became bolder.
Eyes closed, she hung on to him, stroking her hands up and down his arms. They were well-muscled as though he was accustomed to manual labor. Or he was like her and had a home gym. She traced broad shoulders, then reached up to run her fingers against what felt like a few days’ growth of beard.
When he sighed in acquiescence, she let herself enjoy what she was doing, tracing the shape of his chin, which jutted brashly and had a cleft in the center. Traveling upward, she felt a nicely proportioned nose between high cheekbones. His eyes were closed, and she felt his thick lashes like small brushes. Above his brow, she encountered springy hair that must have some curl. What color was it, she wondered.
As he let her continue the exploration, she grew surer of herself, stroking his high cheekbones, his lips.
“Can I touch you?” he asked, his voice thick.
The question sent a little frisson through her. She didn’t want to think about where this might lead, yet at the same time, she craved his touch.
“All right,” she managed to say.
She felt him roll to his side, before a calloused finger explored her face the way she had done with him.
He stroked her cheeks, her nose, her closed eyelids, then found her lips, sweeping back and forth. Involuntarily, her lips parted, and he slipped a finger inside, encountering sensitive tissue that no one else had touched this way before.
Again, she felt heat building inside herself, and suddenly, in addition to the heat, came memories that must be from his past.
She gasped when she saw him as a boy, running along a dock, clambering down into a cabin cruiser, and watching as a man cast off—ignoring the arrival of the boy, who would have been left behind if he’d been late. His father, she knew because she caught his thoughts. When he grew up, he would not be like his dad. Always sad. Always on the edge of anger.
The boat sailed out of a harbor, and she thought she might recognize the view, but she couldn’t be sure. Another scene took its place. He was a little older—in a classroom. A teacher was yelling at him because he’d screwed up the spelling test so badly, and every other kid in the room was looking at him. Some thought the dressing down was funny. Some felt sorry for him. His face was hot, and he wanted to slump down in his chair, but he sat up straight and “took it like a man.” That was what his father often said to him. “Take it like a man.”
There were more recollections, life experiences that she could have applied to herself. Other kids pairing off in high school while he remained alone. As his memories bombarded her, she gasped. “You’re like me.”
“What?”
“You...relationships...people.” She dragged in a breath and tried to be more coherent. “You never made a meaningful connection with anyone.”
“Especially not with Dad. That was my first failure.”
“No.”
“What would you call it?”
She sighed. If it had been his failure, it would have been the same for her. Without answering his question, she asked, “Your mom?”
Even as she questioned, she knew that his mother had died of a septic infection days after he was born. And Dad had blamed the son for the mother’s death.
That knowledge had her on the verge of tears. If her childhood had been bad, maybe his had been worse.
No, bad with a different twist. Her parents had been anxious to find out what was wrong with their only child, and at the same time, determined to control her life choices. His father had all but ignored the boy.
She heard him drag in a harsh breath as he keyed into some of the painful scenes from her own childhood.
His voice turned harsh. “They thought you were crazy.”
She laughed. “And now I am.”
“No.”
“How would you explain...this?” She flapped her arm for emphasis.
“You might be crazy if you had made me up. But you didn’t. I am...myself. I didn’t come from your mind.”
