But he was awake, and that was something to celebrate.
"I feel like cow manure," he mumbled.
"You should eat something." She dusted her hands against her thighs and stepped around boxes to head for the kitchen.
She ladled a bowl of the hearty beef stew she'd had going on the stove all day. Sliced a thick cut of the bread she'd baked that afternoon. Added butter, the way her dad had liked it. She ran a tall glass of water, knowing Cord needed to stay hydrated to fight this thing off. Added Tylenol to a napkin.
She returned to the living room and found him slouched in the same position. She put the plate and glass on the coffee table in front of him. His eyes had slid closed, but she didn't think he was asleep again.
"You need me to spoon feed you?" she teased.
One corner of his mouth lifted. "Maybe. That smells real good, but I don't know if I can lift my arms."
But even as he said it, he straightened. Lifted the plate to his lap, steadied the wobbling bowl.
She went back to the tree. Only two more parts to separate, and it would be completely down.
"I couldn't stand it anymore," she said, as if he'd asked her opinion. "It was a really depressing tree."
He grunted as he took a bite of her stew. Agreeing, she assumed.
"Don't worry, I saved your gift." She pointed to the wrapped rectangle she'd set on the windowsill. She might've spent several minutes feeling up the package. She was certain it was a framed picture. But of what?
He downed the Tylenol and gulped the water, emptying the glass in a few swallows. She made another trip to the kitchen for more.
"Where'd you get this bread?" he asked when she returned and set the glass on the coffee table.
"I made it." Pounding the dough had been a therapeutic way to assuage her worries.
"It's good," he mumbled around another bite.
The praise made her warm and gooey inside. She'd make the bread every day if he liked it that much.
She stuffed the piece of pipe and paper needles into a box. It didn't fit, no matter how much she shoved.
"I'm taking this hideous tree to the dump tomorrow," she said. "Unless you have a sentimental attachment to it."
He stared at her for a long moment, chewing and then swallowing his bite of stew. "Unless I have a…" He shook his head, his smile a shade bitter. "I've always hated that tree."
That was that, then.
He set his plate on the coffee table and reclined against the couch again, still upright but allowing his head to fall back on the cushions. As if just the act of eating had exhausted him.
"Do you have a real tree at Christmas?" she asked. “Back in Houston?”
"Hmm? No."
She tossed the strand of lights she'd pulled from the tree on top of the box. They were at least ten years old, half the lights out, just like she'd guessed from the beginning.
"I know they make a mess, but I love real trees," she said. "I guess an artificial tree can be nice, too, though."
He pulled the top blanket across his lap. "I don't usually decorate for the holiday. Too busy with work." He paused. "And no one to decorate for."
"That's really sad." She and her roommate had found a tiny potted evergreen for sale outside a hardware store near campus and had overloaded their dorm room with paper stars and lights hung along the ceiling.
"My guess is you're one of those guys who breaks off a relationship before the holiday gets too close. That way, you can save your money and not waste it on girlfriend gifts."
He laughed, his eyes widening. "I seem like that kind of guy?"
"No." She shoved the two big boxes of fake tree toward the front door. Hound Dog got up and moved, rounding the boxes cautiously. "You seem like the kind of guy a smart woman wouldn't let get away."
He considered her for a long moment, eyes at half-mast. "Tell that to my ex girlfriend," he mumbled.
Ex. Some part of her couldn't help but wonder if it had been serious.
Not that it was her business.
"You also seem like someone who knows better than to keep holding on to some old grudge. You should make up with Iris and Jilly." When she'd called Iris earlier, the other woman had been genuinely concerned about Cord.
Now his eyes slid closed. Tired, or didn't want to admit she was right?
"It's not my grudge," he said quietly.
With a groan, he pushed himself off the sofa. "I'm going to sleep in my own bed."
"I don't…" Know if that's a great idea. Think you should climb to the second floor. Want to be alone.
He didn't wait for her permission, just headed for the stairs, his steps slow and feet dragging.
11
Cord dreamed of that June night ten years ago. In his dream, he and Callum and Noah and West went to the lake, which would have been a better choice than what really happened. They were splashing and having fun as the sun went down, and then West suggested jumping off Bluebonnet Point. The rock outcropping was frequented by teens. When Cord had been in grade school, someone'd broken his neck on an underwater stump or rock. Teenagers still came, still jumped the forty feet into the lake below.
And Cord's vocal cords refused to work. Dream Cord was screaming at West, screaming at his friends not to go up there. Not to jump.
And then he was flying over the edge of the rock, tumbling headfirst toward the water.
Everything went dark. He was underwater.
He couldn't breathe.
It was so cold, surrounding him.
He thrashed—
And woke up in his own bed, sweating through his sheets and the quilt, shivering with fever.
Had he shouted in his delirium?
His throat was parched. He needed a drink. There was a glass on the bedside table. He didn't remember it being there before. It was empty.
The house was silent. It was the
