“Sometimes.”
“When it’s been bad?” he asks quietly.
“When it’s been bad,” I nod. “Or when it might be bad. Sometimes before anything happens at all.”
I hate how much that costs me to admit.
I hate more that he seems to understand it.
“That sounds exhausting,” he says.
“It is.”
The words come out more honestly than I mean them to.
For a moment, neither of us says anything.
I fold my arms, then unfold them again because it feels too defensive. “Don’t wander off. Don’t decide something looks interesting and follow it. Don’t stand where you can’t be seen. If we get turned out, you do what I say.” No matter how often I have said that to him by now, it never feels often enough.
“I will.”
His voice is still gentle.
My face is warm.
I am forty-two years old, a watch manager and entirely too experienced to be undone by a journalist in a white T-shirt looking at me beside a stack of clean blankets.
“Though,” he says, “I do suspect, you do seem to enjoy ordering me around a little.”
I narrow my eyes. “You require a lot of instruction.”
“I’m very committed to my development.”
“You’re committed to testing my patience.”
“Also that.”
“You admit it?”
“I’ve had time to reflect during my days off.”
“Productive.”
“Very. I watched daytime television, avoided stairs and thought about everything I’ve learned.”
“That must have taken at least ten minutes.”
“More like fifteen.”
I smile before I can stop myself.
“I’m glad you came back,” I say.
The words are out before I can inspect them.
AJ goes still.
Only for a second, but I notice.
