“I’ll drive,” Will murmurs.
He half scoops me, half walks me to the passenger side door. I schlep my body into the seat and rest my head against the window after he closes me inside.
Will drives in complete silence to my house, where he again half scoops me, half walks me to my bed and deposits me in the center of it, under the covers.
I gaze up at him, a single tear fogging into existence in the corner of my left eye. He sits on the edge of the bed and gently kisses my forehead, the tip of my nose, my chin.
“Everybody hates me,” I say with a tiny sob, feeling pathetic. Useless. Paltry.
“But I love you,” Will says.
“I’m so tired,” I say, barely managing the words as my throat chokes closed. “I’m exhausted from trying so hard.”
“Sleep.”
“I don’t think that’s going to help.”
“You have to start somewhere.”
I close my eyes, relish the feeling of his thumb rubbing tiny circles on the edge of my jaw. He never falters until I lose consciousness.
I dream of Barcelona. I dream of the almond shape of Will’s perfect blue eyes, the way he’d stand there patiently while I brushed my thumb back and forth across his top lashes as many times as I wanted. I dream of the way he’d smile when he thought I said something funny. Every variation of his one dimple, of both, of what kind of smiles brought them out. I dream of his voice and the way the tendons of his hand flexed when he shook the hand of the business partner we met in Barcelona. I dream of every atom that separated our bodies during that tour. I dream of his hands gripping the underside of my knee when we sat down for lunch, the way I could feel it in at least a dozen other places on my body.
I dream of everything I remember about that day. Except I can’t dream of a single detail about that supplier’s facility because I didn’t pay any fucking attention.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
My house smells like sugar and cinnamon when I wake. Bleary-eyed, I stumble out of bed and cross to the window.
It’s completely dark outside. I’ve been asleep all day.
I follow my nose to the kitchen. Will is sitting at the island in a chair too small for his frame, the bluish light of his computer screen lighting up his wan face. When he sees me, he glances up, his gaze evaluating.
“Did you bake muffins?” I point to the pan on top of my stove.
“Bought you a muffin pan, too.”
I walk from the hall to the stove, reaching for a muffin. Before my hand makes contact, Will yanks me up by my waist and deposits me on the counter.
“You enjoy putting me up here,” I comment.
“How are you feeling?”
“Hungry.”
Will frowns, reaching behind him to grab a muffin. “They’re raspberry.”
I accept it and peel back the paper. When I take my first bite, some of the sugar dusting rains onto the floor between us. The corner of Will’s lip curls into the ghost of a smile.
“How are they?”
I give him a thumbs-up while I chew. “What time is it?” I ask through a mouthful.
“Nine. You slept for ten hours.”
I raise my eyebrows, both alarmed and unsurprised.
“Camila came by, but she didn’t want to wake you.”
