“And you guys talk about work stuff?”
“A lot of stuff.”
“I’m”—she faltered—“really impressed, Jack. How long has that been going on?”
“Three weeks or so. I’ve seen him twice.”
“Every other week?”
“Yeah, that’s the goal.”
“Well, if you need someone to talk to on the in-between times, I’m here.” She pulled her legs up, crisscrossing them on the bed. Those big eyes were as sincere as ever. I wondered how long she’d be “here” to talk to.
“Thanks.” I situated the plate on my lap and stabbed at some lettuce. This was what I was bad at. Talking. Being honest when it was ugly. I took a deep breath, trying to gear up. “We had to basically scrape a body off the road today. Then I had to do a death notification with Porter, one of the rookies. The wife was…hysterical.” I lifted a shoulder. “Most calls—even the crazy ones—feel pretty routine, but stuff like that kind of sticks with you for a while.”
“Of course it does.” Her hand came to my forearm and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Thanks for telling me.”
Silence settled. Her sitting beside me on the bed felt strange. She shifted uncomfortably before shifting to face me. “I’ve been wanting to show you something. I’ve been putting it off because it kind of brings up a lot for me—but I’ve been wrong, really wrong, not to share it with you before. It’s a wrong I need to make right.”
I swallowed my bite and leaned to place my dinner on the nightstand. “Sure.”
She left and returned a few moments later with a scrapbook I recognized. She crawled up and placed the book in my lap then turned to go.
“Where you going?”
“I thought I’d let you look at it alone.”
“Stay.”
She shook her head. “That’s okay.”
“What’s in here?”
“Stuff I can’t look at without getting pretty emotional.” She crossed her arms over her chest and gave a kind of silly smile, trying to hide tears that were already pressing in. Shebacked toward the door, accidentally hitting the door frame with her behind.
“Miranda.”
She stopped.
“Please stay.”
She opened her mouth to respond.
“I am trying my best to get better at being okay with tears. Let me practice?”
She swallowed and took a slow step back toward the bed. I beckoned her with my hand and she climbed up on top of the covers. Slow, wide-eyed. She looked at the book then back at me. Like she was trying to decide if she should protect it. Like I might toss her treasure against the wall or something.
“Together?” I leaned, gently bumping her shoulder.
She nodded. Her chest rose and fell. She was fighting a panic response. And so was I—for totally different reasons.
“Is this book about the babies?”
“Yes.” Her answer was quiet, already swelling with emotion. “I made this because…I didn’t want to forget them.”
Forget.
That single word mowed me down. For a moment, I groped for my next move as my mind whirred. The word sent me into a momentary tailspin and I couldn’t put my finger on why.
