“But you . . . It sounds . . . ”
I released him, my urge to comfort too strong. “Adam, I—”
“How do you know?” He stepped closer. “How do you separate the dreams from what’s real?”
“I-I don’t know . . . I just . . . tell myself.” I tasted the faint scent of juniper and shook my head to clear it. “I latch on to what’s real for me, not them. When I wake up, I remember things. Go over details, conversations, memories of what I know to be real until I calm down.”
“But how do you know?”
“I-I don’t know what to tell you. It’s different. Aislyn was so young, it must’ve been—”
“So these dreams just started for you?”
“Ah . . . well.” One look at his face told me the time for holding back had long since passed. “Not exactly. I’ve been having them off and on since I was a kid. But my angels were always around so, you know, I didn’t think much about it. Besides, before I was a mother, they weren’t . . . ” I couldn’t go any further with that thought so I shrugged. “They’re random, usually. Wouldn’t be such a big deal except they’ve been just about every night for months now, and I’m flat worn out.”
“And you didn’t think to share any of this when I was telling you about Aislyn.”
My mouth flopped open. “Well, Jesus Christ. Excuse me for being so focused on your story that I didn’t talk about myself!” I clamped down on the inside of my cheek and made myself take a slow breath through my nose. “Look. It’s not the same thing. I’ve always had my angels, so I wasn’t alone.”
“And Aislyn was . . . ” He drew back and turned to look out the window.
“You know that’s not what I meant!” I squashed my fresh irritation and tried again. “Come on now. No way she could’ve been alone with a big brother like you.”
I stepped forward to catch his eye with a smile, but his gaze was focused on the glass. Outside it was a beautiful, warm sunny morning. Inside, it was a messy, stormy day. I waited—again—for our shared weather to shift.
Finally, he spoke. “Trent had a crush on her. Did Cara tell you that?”
“No she . . . I didn’t ask . . . ?”
“I was older—a senior headed to college when my sister was still in middle school. Trent was two years ahead of her, but they had an art class together. She was an amazing artist.” He cleared his throat and considered the window again. “He told me he’d make up dumb excuses just to talk to her. I’ve always wondered if she knew . . . ”
His right hand slid across the window sill and up the trim, his thumb rubbing on a splintered bit that was showing its age.
“I was a freshman at State when she . . . I felt like I’d abandoned her by leaving. And I was angry with my parents . . . ” he locked his hands under his arms, “ . . . for a long time.”
I didn’t trust myself to say the right thing, so I fell back on the least intrusive part. “You knew Trent and Cara since they were kids?”
He shook his head. “Trent was in my platoon. I joined the Marines instead of finishing college, and a few years later this scrawny kid showed up, fresh out of high school. I could tell he’d joined up like me. To try to fix things . . . because we hadn’t been able to fix other things.” His chest rose and fell with a silent sigh. “And one day he told me. That a girl he knew had committed suicide when she was really young . . . and how—crazy as it seemed—he’d been convinced they were meant to be together. He described her as his soulmate.”
My stomach suddenly felt hollow.
Adam nodded. “Yeah. He showed me a sketch she’d left in class one day. He’d kept it all that time. That’s how I knew. The sketch. Her funny little ‘a’ was all the signature she’d ever used.
“Anyway, he said it’d messed with his head and he’d ended up in the Corps so he could make a difference somehow—help people who couldn’t help themselves.” He gave me a half-hearted grin. “Guess he was too much of a fighter to join the Peace Corps.”
I smiled, though I felt like crying for both of them. “He was a fighter?”
“Had to be. But, yeah . . . one of the best.”
“And were you a fighter?” It was strange to think of this gentle man in combat. I’d seen him strong—and angry—but trying to picture him with weapons . . . killing?
His face darkened. “We were talking about your dreams.”
“Nope. We are way finished talking about me.”
“But—”
“Seriously.” I’d upset him again, and I wasn’t sure how this time. “Eileen’s been outside for too long, anyway. She needs breakfast.” He didn’t argue, but on my way to the front door I remembered what Eileen had said. “Um, unless . . . Did you have anything else you wanted to talk about . . . ?”
He froze, one hand extended toward the stove. He’d probably been intending to dump the ill-fated pancake and get the skillet warmed up again, but now he seemed undecided. The silence between us was awkward, but I lingered near the door. He hadn’t thrown out a casual no, so maybe there was something else.
“Why’re you asking?”
I could only see his profile, but his ear reddened as I laughed. “Eileen.”
His cheek lifted. “She’s something, isn’t she?”
“That’s putting it mildly. Look, I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. God knows I hate people poking at me.”
He turned in mock surprise. “You think I was poking at you?”
“Like a cattle prod. Now do you have something to say, or not?” Joking with him was so much easier than the drama we’d been playing out the past twenty minutes.
“Yeah, okay . . . fair’s fair, right?” He settled heavily against the counter beside the stove.
Curious, I chose a spot of my own and made myself comfortable. All in all,
