“And I came back to you, right? I’m here.”
I laugh dryly. “Yes. That makescompletesense. You know, given my state of mind.”
The anxiety and concern on his face is clear, and it starts to cut through my numbness. I feel badly that I’m disappointing my fantasy Sam. I should play along better.
“I came back to you,” he says firmly, “and now, you’re going to come back to me.”
Sam swiftly leans in, and when his lips reach mine, it’s as though I’ve been hit by lightning. And truth. The taste, the feel, the rush of him is full of clarity.
Sam is real. This kiss is real. I know that.
He was also dead. I know that, too.
My sobbing separates us, and I collapse against him, grabbing at the front of his shirt, as I bury my wet face in his chest. I’m nearly hyperventilating while I do what I can to trust him.
His hands rub my back, and he tries to soothe my emotions. “Breathe, baby, please. Just breathe.”
He holds me and waits for my storm to calm. Sam has patience, and he doesn’t falter in his hold or his words, talking to me, while some semblance of sanity reenters my mind.
He sits us down on the bed. “This is the bed we slept in two nights ago. On the sheets that you found in the closet when you moved in here. You didn’t want new ones, you decided, because you liked how soft these were from age. It took three rounds through the washing machine to get out the musty smell. Remember?”
I nod again. “Yes. I used scented fabric softener that smelled like lavender.”
“Right. And the keys you stepped on?”
“Those are for your truck? It’s outside?”
“Yes. Do you want to see?”
“Yes.”
Sam stands and lifts me, carrying me to the broken French doors and outside over glass. My arms are around his neck, my head resting against his shoulder. He takes us along the wraparound porch to the front of the house, and in the driveway, I see his truck. The driver’s side visor is down from when I searched for the keys nearly twenty-four hours ago.
“I tried to get help,” I say. “I think electrical wires were down on the road.”
“There are. I saw them. I managed to get a signal and texted my family so that they know we’re all right.” He carries me back inside and sets me down on the bed again. “It’s freezing. We need to get you dressed.” He turns to retrieve clothes from my closet.
“Bishop, don’t go, don’t go…” I am panicked.
“I’m not leaving you, okay? I’m right here. Watch me. I know you’re scared. I know. But I’m not leaving. I wouldn’t lie to you. You know that, right?”
He does tell me the truth—always. I’m sure of that. It’s one of the few things I believe.
My eyes stay glued to him when he pulls a shirt from a hanger and takes pants from the dresser.
“I’m sorry that I broke the mirror.” It’s a stupid thing to say, given the circumstances.
He smiles. “If you’d died in front of me, I’d have broken a mirror, too.”
“There’s also the glass from the door. I broke that, too.”
“I’ll fix it. It’ll be like it never happened.”
“Will it be like you never bled to death?” I start crying again. I can’t help it.
Then, he is kneeling in front of me, holding my hands. “I’ll fix that, too.” He kisses each of my fingers and then wipes away my tears. “You must be cold.”
A sweater slips over my head, and then I am stepping into soft pants.
