He laughs, his palm cupping the back of my head. “Everything moves, and I’m grateful.” His voice drops. “Now, I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. Surely I can’t be this lucky.”
“Why not?” I prop myself gently on his chest, looking for signs that my weight puts pressure in the wrong spots. Clear, fathomless eyes stare back. “I swear you’re more complex than you were when I met you, Cordell Rand.”
“Why do people keep using my full name?” He runs his fingers across my cheekbones and traces the curve of my brow. “I can’t stop touching you. But I might be a little different in some things.”
“What do you mean?”
He stills. “Sometimes my mind jumbles things up. I can’t always remember names, and words come out mixed up. Like I’ve scrambled the letters in my head and spit them out in the wrong order. Alphabet omelet.”
I nod. “I get that.”
“You do,” Cord says flatly. His eyebrows hike, his gaze wary, like he’s told this story before and earned the same result. I wonder who lied to him at the hospital and who will lose their job tomorrow when I make a phone call.
But I have my own confession to make. “You’ve never seen me after a full-blown migraine. Or with one. The night after I drove back from here—that first day I collected Sally—I could barely think. The pain doesthat.”
“You were dopey.” He squints at me. “When I got to Winnie’s a week later, you were all over the place.”
I huff. “Those pills are terrible. I can’t go out in public like that. But I can function after a few days. Maybe not drive, but…function. After a migraine, I can’t always say words right. Dialing a phone number or entering stats into my spreadsheets—sometimes it’s impossible. I can go six or seven times, trying to put numbers in that I’m familiar with. Passwords are a nightmare. Or I might be thinking of something simple, like, say, a square. But I say oval instead. Or utter rubbish falls out, like I’m possessed. Communication, no matter how simple, is…”
“Terrifying.” Cord watches me, the wariness leaving his gaze. “The last person who told me they understood was full of shit.”
“I figured that out. I’m sorry.” I press a kiss to his chest. “Not having your brain work the way you’re used to—not being able to rely on the thing you love about yourself—it’s like someone’s taken what you identify with most and destroyed it.” I press my lips together, studying a button on his shirt.
I’ve never told anyone about the aftereffects of my worst migraines. They sicken me, and I’ve experienced the same disbelief factor that Cord has come across from both friends and health providers enough not to bother with seeking yet another diagnosis.
“Come here, Lanie.” Cord draws me along him gently. I wriggle to help. “That’s not broken, you know. Stop wiggling.”
“Oh?” His body pushes against me.Oh.“You’ve just had surgery. You cannot be serious.”
“Oh, there’s no way at all,” he agrees, exhaling slowly. “But if I can kiss you, I’d like that. Then, let me pass out.”
His mouth finds mine, the gentle, hesitant stroke of lips and tongue like a whole new first time. I smile against his mouth.
“What about everyone else?” I think of the boys waiting outside, of Winnie and Sally.
“Screw everyone else. I need you.”
The homestead fills with a single sound—Cord’s snores. That’s become a regular feature in the weeks since he’s returned home. Darkness descends over the house as I pad though its otherwise quiet halls. The heavy sense of anticipation from before his ride has long dissipated. Sally sleeps in her usual room. West has given in—badly—to staying near the girls under the pretense that if I can’t manage Cord on my own, then he can help.
I don’t resent his presence in the big house, more the opposite. I’m in well over my head in terms of helping Cord recover, and I’m hyperaware that failing at my current task could be catastrophic for more than one person. The pressure of caring for a man who knows his limits but refuses to hold to them is beyond terrifying. Cord tends to remove himself from the world, but hiding from those who love and support him has other ramifications. Isolation being one of them.
But this is different from before. Then, he was working toward the event and had a purpose, a function I understood. Now…Cord is powering through each day just to survive while I tap away, pretending to work or make sandwiches. Caring for a man who refuses to be cared for is far from easy. Often I wonder if my presence at Coyote Falls actually stops him from healing.
Like I have no place in his world anymore.
Or maybe I never did in the first place and I was only kidding myself the entire time, trying to fit in to his life, and everyone just…accommodated me with all the grace of Coyote Falls’ usual welcoming committee that I’ve come to know—and fell in love with.
Cord has an entire wing of the homestead reserved for his use, but he emerges at mealtimes, establishing a sort of habit after a few days that stretch into long weeks.
His life goes on as normal. A new normal, creating his version of this next segment of his life, while I wait in the wings, hovering.
So I wander about the homestead in the dark when no one else is awake in a pity party for one. I locate the kitchen bench with myhand before I earn myself a stack of bruises, walking along it in the gloom until I find my phone. My water bottle should be right behind it. Somewhere. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. Gurgling water upside down from a tap in Cord’s bathroom, knowing I’ll wear half of it down my front, doesn’t have quite the same appeal.
Naturally, I can’t find what I’m looking for at all.
Loathe to turn on the light in case I manage to wake anyone—unlikely, but we’re all still running on close to empty—I fumble around on the bench, finally giving up and flick on my phone’s flashlight app.
“Augh, turn it off!” a feminine voice cries.
