Darkened stairs.
Darkened landing.
A thin strip of yellow showed under the door to the bedroom I shared with Bobby.
He was undressing—peeling off an oatmeal-colored sweater to stand in his undershirt and jeans.He glanced over his shoulder, and his face showed nothing.
“They let me do takeout.It’s in the kitchen.”
“Bobby, I’m so sorry.”
He shed his undershirt next.Broad shoulders drawing down to a tightly defined waist, a well-muscled back, the flex of biceps as he bent his arms.
“Something came up,” I said.
“What?”
I could have said,Something about the murders.It would have been an easy out.It also would have been a lie.
“The TV show,” Bobby said.“Your new friend from L.A.”
I actually had to wait a minute for the sting to fade.It left the world slightly red, filled my head with fog so that it was hard to think.
“Wow,” I said.
He grabbed a polo—one of the ones he wore for work.He pulled it on.And as he did, he said, “I guess that’s a yes.What’s going on with your new friend?”
The wind at the windows.The shutters rattling.It was so loud it might have been my imagination.
“I don’t like how you’re saying that.”
Bobby turned around, arms tight across his chest.“Then you’re not going to like this: he wants to sleep with you.Or had you already figured that out?”
And then the wind died, and the only sound was our breathing.
“Bobby, I don’t understand—” I stopped.“Nothing happened.”
He looked away.
“What?”I said.“You don’t believe me?”
“I believe you.”
But instead of making things better, it was like a giant hole waiting for me to step into it.
“I don’t know what’s happening right now,” I said.My breaths were coming faster.The room shrank, pressed in on me.Sometimes in dreams, I couldn’t talk.I tried to scream, and nothing came out.In other dreams, people I’d known moved past me like I wasn’t there.Or fought with me, and I didn’t understand why.For a horrible minute, it was like the years had collapsed, and I was back with Hugo again, and I didn’t understand anything, and I didn’t understand why I was the only person in the world who couldn’t seem to understand what was obvious to everyone else.“Bobby, I would never—Iloveyou.”
He nodded.And then he wiped his eyes.His voice was rough when he said, “Okay.I know.I— Dash, I know I’m not good at communicating.But tonight was important to me.And I thought I made that clear.”
“You did.I messed up.This is my fault, and I’m so sorry.”
Bobby looked like he tried to let it go, but words burst out of him, laced with pain.“We’ve got two murders, and I had tobegthe sheriff to let me cut out for a couple of hours because this was more important.”
“I know.God, Bobby, I know.And I ruined it.”
“Do you know what that felt like, when you didn’t show up?The first thing I thought was what if something had happened to you?I couldn’t—”
He didn’t finish, but I knew what he’d been about to say:I couldn’t breathe.Because Bobby was so careful.He was so determined.He was so sure that he could do everything right and keep everyone safe.And when he couldn’t—when he was pushed beyond his limits—he had panic attacks.I had the sudden, vivid picture of Bobby trying desperately to breathe, alone in his car or in a public restroom or on a dark street corner, a horrible situation made even worse because he was in public when all his walls came crashing down.
