Finally I give up and reach for my phone and FaceTime Wyatt. He looks like he’s been in a deep sleep when his features swim into view. “Dawn? Is everything all right?”
Too late, I realize that when the phone rings this late, it is usually bad news.
“I’m fine,” I say immediately. “How did you know it was me?”
“Who else knows I’m in America?”
I crawl into bed and tuck him into the space beside me.
“So,” Wyatt murmurs. “Are you checking up on me? Making sure I didn’t bring any other nascent Egyptologists back to my room?”
“I just missed you.”
“I wish you were here,” he says, his voice soft.
“I wish I were, too.”
“Why do you look like you’re on the verge of tears?”
Because, I realize, getting what you want isn’t instant gratification. It’s a slow pulling apart, a realignment of bones and sinew. There are aches involved. There is bruising.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I can’t sleep.”
“You can’t sleep withoutme,” he corrects, so cocky that it makes me smile.
Suddenly I feel guilty, dragging him into my insomnia. “You were tired, and I woke you up. I’m a terrible girlfriend.”
“Girlfriend,” he muses. “Is that what you are?”
Given that he still technically has a fiancée and I still have a husband, I don’t know what else Icouldbe. I feel like I am in seventh grade again, whispering to my crush. I feel my heart hammering, while I try to figure out how to respond. “Co-parent?”
“So clinical.”
“I’m open to suggestions.”
“Areyou.” Wyatt’s voice licks the inside of my ear. “How aboutmy other half,then.My heart. My love.”
I fall back against the pillows, filled with stars. “Those work,” I manage.
“Good. Now, may I go back to sleep if I promise to dream about you?”
“I suppose,” I say, grinning. “Good night.”
“Olive,” he sighs. “You have to hang up.”
“You first.”
“Count of three?”
“One,” I say.
“Two,” he whispers.
I disconnect the call. I feel so buoyant I am barely touching the mattress. I close my eyes, but after a few more minutes, I give up and pad downstairs to the kitchen.
Suddenly I’m grounded again. Brian sits in a small pool of light cast by the hood of the stove. In front of him is a bottle of whiskey. He turns when I stop a few feet away from him, looking at me as if my appearance is inevitable. There are dark circles under his eyes, and his hair is spiky with sleep, or lack thereof. He stands up, immediately alert. “Are you all right? Does something hurt?”
Everything,I think. Just not the way you imagine.
