Adam puts his arm around my shoulders and I lift my legs to hook over one of his. He pulls me close against his side and I rest my head against his shoulder.
I think,I know why they call it a love seat.
I close my eyes and try desperately to sink into the quiet, for however long I have until Salem and Tegan get back. I’ll eat whatever they bring me and afterward I’ll try again with the postcard.
But then, after what must be only a minute, Adam says, “I don’t think we should keep going tonight.”
It’s something in his voice that has me sitting up to look at him. I don’t quite know how to describe it except to say that it’s not his bodyguarding voice. It’s not the voice where he says I need to rest or that I’ve done enough for today; it’s not the one that says all he cares about in the world is the conditions I set, or keeping me safe.
It’s more . . .
It reminds me of Salem’s voice, I suppose. Incisive but distant. Professional. There’s a knowingness to his tone. AWe’ve gotten all we’re going to getassessment. I have the sense, somehow, that he’s saying more than we should stop for the night.
I have the sense he’s saying we should stop the interview altogether.
“Why not?” I ask, strangely insulted.
He doesn’t answer right away. He rubs a hand over his brow and looks pained. I think about that night in St. Louis, when he told me he wanted to take a step back from the story. That he wanted to protect this thing between us.
A warm flush of affection rises in me.
“I know it wasn’t what we planned,” I say gently, reassuringly. “But it’s better that you’re doing it, in the end. If it were Salem, I’d be—”
“It’s not that.”
I think it’s the first time he’s ever interrupted me, and it stings. He leans forward, setting his elbows on his knees and bowing his head again. He gusts out a heavy sigh.
“It is that, but it’s also not. It’s—”
He breaks off, and I watch the muscles in his back expand again as he inhales.
“It’s what?”
“You’re having a hard time,” is what he finally settles on. I can tell it’s a settling. An inadequacy. “Talking about your mom.”
I blink at him. “Of course I am,” I snap, absurdly wounded. He’s talking about how I sounded, I’m sure. The stiltedness, the roboticness.
I almost say I only sounded that way because of him, because of how I feel for him. But I can’t bring myself to blame him forit.
It’s me, after all, who doesn’t really know how to live a feeling out loud.
“I told you everything I know,” I say instead. “I answered every question.”
I might as well be talking to a cop. I hate it so much that I stand from the love seat, pacing over to stand behind the chair Adam asked me questions from. I cross my arms and look down at him, waiting for him to explain himself.
I’llbe the cop.
“I know you did. This isn’t about whether you answered the questions. But you’re not . . .” He trails off, clears his throat. “There’s places you won’t go.”
I’m in freaking New Mexico, I almost say.I’ve gone to four different states since I met you.
I definitely know that’s not what he means, but also, I don’t want to admit that I know what he does.
“Remember the other night when you—when you came over to my hotel room?”
Of course I remember. The plan, sure, but more than that— the way we’d clung to each other in that tiny vestibule, the way he’d pushed into me so strong and selfish and perfect. My neck heats, the warmth spreading down and all through me.
“When you caught me watching football.”
