He grabbed her arm. Tight. Insistent. “Every time I see this,” he said, his voice rough, “I’ll remember, too. I’ll remember that you’re still here.”
His head ducked and his lips pressed against the inside of her arm. “You’re—” he kissed her wrist “—still—” and her hand “—here.”
And when he raised his head, his eyes gleamed. He flattened her hand against his chest. His heart was thundering almost as violently as hers.
“You’re still here, Laurel. I won’t pretend to understand what you’re feeling. How to understand what drove your mother. But I do know this. No matter what you think, you’re not like her. And you’re not responsible for the things she did.”
“Why do you even care?” Her voice broke.
“Because I—” He didn’t finish. Instead he swore. Loudly and fiercely. It echoed around the tiled, antiseptic-smelling room.
He let go of her and turned his back, head bowed, hands on his lean, jean-clad hips. Then his shoulders moved, straining the limits of the Durango T-shirt even more. “Because I do.”
Then he bent over and picked up her cardigan from the floor where it had fallen. He turned to face her again and held it open for her. “Because I do,” he repeated. “Put your arms in.”
She swallowed hard, fresh tears threatening all over again, this time owed strictly to him. “I hate crying,” she hiccupped.
“I hate you crying, too.” Since she hadn’t moved, he did, circling behind her, and she felt the soft, familiar safety of her pink sweater being drawn up over her arms. “And never more than when I know there’s not one damn thing I can do to make things better for you.”
She looked at his face, blurred by tears, but so, so very clear. She swiped her cheeks while he began buttoning her sweater, pushing one button after another through their holes from the bottom up. “You make everything better. I feel like you have always made everything better.”
Instead of smiling, though, his lips twisted in a frown. “Laurel, there’s something I need to tell—”
“Sorry.” Ernie the clerk knocked loudly even though the bathroom door was still open from Adam’s entry. “Just wanted to check.” He looked awkward, avoiding actually looking in at them. “Getting a line out at the pump, see, and—”
“That’s my fault.” Laurel wiped her cheeks again and despite her still-clumsy feet, slipped around Adam. “I’m sorry. We’ll get out of the way now.”
“Some mornings are rougher than others getting going.” Ernie’s voice followed her through the door.
There were several people now at the coffee machine. She ducked her head and hurried out of the building. The cool air felt even colder thanks to her wet shirt. The thin sweater was no match.
Ernie hadn’t exaggerated about the line. Six vehicles waited for a chance at the gas pump.
She sank into the car’s back seat and grabbed a shirt from her canvas tote. She’d change in the car, the same way she used to when Adam would pick her up after her last class of the week on their way to Larkin Square. Once there, they’d eat—usually food from one of the ever-present food trucks—and they’d sit on the grass together and study or, just as often, end up dancing to the music from one of the local bands. Then he’d go to his shift at The Yard and she’d take the bus back to their apartment.
Why...why had she ever accepted that fellowship that had taken her away from him?
The question wasn’t really a question considering she now knew the answer. Along with every other memory about her parents that had exploded in her mind, she’d remembered that.
She’d chosen the fellowship because she’d been afraid of what her mother might do if Laurel chose Adam.
Adam opened the driver’s door and his weary eyes skated over her in the back seat.
She held up the fresh shirt in silent explanation.
He handed her the plastic bottle of orange juice that she’d entirely forgotten about and then slid behind the wheel and closed the door. A moment later, the engine rumbled and they were driving away from the pump.
She turned and looked out the back window to see the line of cars jockeying for fresh positions. “Ernie needs another gas pump.” She turned back around and Adam’s eyes seemed to trap hers in the rearview mirror.
Every memory BA that she’d regained—good and bad—had been because of him.
“Do you still want to stop in Horseback Hollow?” he asked her.
“I think we’ll have to,” she said huskily. “These will never last you the rest of the way to Houston.” She lifted the nearly empty bag of cookies for him to see and smiled shakily. “And you hate bananas.”
When they reached The Grill in Horseback Hollow—Ernie hadn’t exaggerated about the place not being much to look at—Adam phoned the hospital while Laurel perused the restaurant’s one-sided menu.
She was calmer than she’d been. Her tears had dried, her eyes no longer red. She’d changed out of the flying pig pajama pants and wet camisole into narrow blue jeans and a white button-down shirt that would have looked like a man’s shirt except for the way it hugged her slender curves.
Adam figured the only reason she wasn’t wearing that ever-present sweater was because the shirt had long sleeves.
Not a single scar on her arm showed.
Neither did the gold necklace hanging around her neck. A gold necklace that he’d given her.
It had shaken the hell out of him to see it on her back in Seattle.
He was acutely aware of how brittle she was. As if one hit from a strong Texas wind would send her toppling.
If he was certain he was the one meant to catch her, he wouldn’t feel as brittle himself as he did.
“Mr. Fortune.” The night nurse who was still on duty that early in the morning finally came on the
