Page 78

“Can see that. Did you learn the hard way, or have you always been like this?”

“Both, maybe.” I elaborate when Poet tilts his head. “My parents raised Matis and I to take care of ourselves—clean the house, wash the clothes, cook the food. And when I left home, I learned fast that life is much harder for me if I can’t find something good to eat when I need it most.”

He is quiet again. But he’s so close I can smell apple trees on him, and he seems fascinated by the contents of my fridge.

I reach for the supper I made before we sailed this afternoon. For this exact moment, though I didn’t know I wouldn’t be alone.

Or maybe I did.

The foil-wrapped plate holds more sandwiches than I would usually make for myself. As if my hands knew what my head did not. “Come sit.”

In the living room. It’s too late in the day for the table.

I take Poet to the enormous couch that takes up a third of the space and try not to ponder how deeply I miss the warm press of his hand in mine. We sit close together and he studies me more as I glance at the reading on my watch, pull my insulin pen from my pocket, and dial up my dose. Takes it all in as I pause before injecting and recalculate.

He notices the hesitation. “Second thoughts?”

“It’s hot.” I glance at my watch again, tracking the line. “And I’ve been working all night. Might take me a few tries to level out.”

Poet knocks my shoulder with his and swipes a sandwich from the plate.

I grin at him as I make a decision and fire the second dose into my stomach. Then I eat too, and quiet falls over us until the food is all gone.

Poet finishes first.

He gets up and goes to the kitchen. Comes back with water and juice, offering me both.

I check my watch and take the water, tilting it to my mouth as I lean back on the couch and watch Poet take a trip around the room, taking in the details he perhaps missed the last time he was here.

The bookcase.

The dinosaurs.

The banjos, guitars, and drums stacked in front of a TV I can’t remember turning on since the long winter I spent trying to stay awake while Aras watched over me.

I shiver. I cannot help it.

Poet has his back to me, but he notices that too and comes back to me as I tip more water down my throat.

It is the easiest thing in the world to hook my leg around his knees and draw him closer. To pull him down on top of me. It’s harder to accept his concern, but I do it—because I want to.

“I was recalling the cold,” I tell him before he can ask. “The winter after the sea. It’s the only time I have ever let Aras watch TV for days on end and I was so afraid I would fall asleep on this couch and not wake up. That he would find me, and when he was older it’d be all he’d remember about me being his dad.”

Poet kisses me. A sweet brush of his lips over mine that deepens just enough to send frissons of teasing heat to my veins. Then he shifts his weight so we’re lying face to face on the couch. “Aras wouldn’t remember a sofa. Or the perfect days. He’d remember that you always showed up for him.”

I loose a slow sigh. “That is what I would say to anyone else who had these thoughts. But it’s so hard to say such things to myself and believe them.”

“Then believe me instead.”

Another easy thing.

Another kiss.

Something loosens in my chest, but Poet seems deep in thought.

“What is it?” I whisper.

Poet brings his hands to cradle my jaw. “I’ve never noticed every tiny detail of someone’s face the way I do yours, and I don’t know why.”