Leonora was excited to see Josh again.
As she watched him from the car window, sitting as he was at that same table at the Tastee-Freez, she let the purity of the sensation sink into her. She didn’t have to parse that emotion, study it from every angle and make sure it was real.
It had bubbled within her all day, making her smile at work as she thought about their upcoming meeting. Sasha had noticed her silly expression and would give Leonora exasperated warning looks whenever she caught her eye.
Leonora found she didn’t care, no matter how many stink eyes Sasha sent her way. Maybe that meant Josh was having a bad influence on her, just as Sasha had feared.
But for all Sasha’s lip curling, she’d driven Leonora over to the Tastee-Freez in the end. When they’d arrived, Josh’s face broke out into a wide smile. Leonora found herself smiling in kind, even though he couldn’t see her inside the car.
Sasha’s expression was half-pleading, half-mourning. Leonora braced herself for yet more scolding. Don’t you see how happy he is to see me? she wanted to shout. That makes me happy.
But that wouldn’t sway Sasha. In the end, she only said, “I’ll be back at six. Remember what you promised me.”
Leonora wasn’t likely to forget, not with all the hard looks Sasha kept sending her. “Thanks.” She fumbled with the door handle, trying to open it as fast as she could. She didn’t bother to respond to Sasha’s warning. There were only so many times she could say, I can take care of myself.
Once she shut the car door, Sasha and her bad vibes were gone. There was nothing but Josh and his happiness.
He rose as she came to him, his smile never slipping. “You came.”
“Did you think I wouldn’t?” But she could tell from the wonder in his voice, he’d doubted.
She took a seat next to him this time, not quite touching but close enough that she could if she wanted to. Or he wanted to.
She wouldn’t touch him, of course. She wasn’t in love with him anymore, not like she had been. That’s not what these meetings were about. But she could sit close. That was allowed. After all, she set the rules here—probably the only place in her life where she did.
He shifted next to her, not moving closer, not moving away. More like testing the space between them. “Well, you said you wanted to meet again, but…”
She could guess at what was in that pause—his uncertainty about her and her feelings, the sad weight of the history between them, her family’s enmity toward him.
Basically, every reason why she shouldn’t be here sat in that pause. It was a big one.
She might skip over that pause, simply jump ahead to more memories. After all, that was why she was here. Instead, she asked him bluntly, “But what?”
He didn’t look a bit taken aback. She liked that she could just straight-out ask him things without him flinching. With other people, she often had to guess at the nuances she might be misreading. There was a freedom with him to push a little further, past what might be considered rude or offensive. Because what could she possibly say to him that might be worse than what he thought he’d done to her?
His gaze was steady. “But… you could have changed your mind. Once you’d thought about everything we talked about.”
“You mean your least favorite moments?” Again she went for directness.
“Yeah.”
“I don’t think much about the hospital anymore.” She shrugged. “And here I am.”
He looked at her for a long beat. Perhaps he saw through her shrug or her comment about the hospital. Perhaps he could tell that while she didn’t think about the hospital, she still visited it in her nightmares.
She wondered what he saw in his nightmares. But she wasn’t brave enough to ask.
He pushed a Styrofoam takeout box across the table toward her. “I figured you might be hungry, so I brought you some carne asada fries. You used to love those.”
She opened the box slowly, the box squeaking as she did. The scent of meat and fried potatoes rose up with the steam as the lid swung open. Her mouth watered. “I haven’t had these in so long.”
The little plastic fork sat across the mess of them, much too small and flimsy to really dig into the meat and fries and guacamole. How many of those forks had she broken eating these? Every single time she’d ended up using her fingers, glorying in the messy carnality of it.
“Really?” Josh asked. “You used to ask for them… well, every time we got drunk.”
Yes, she had. That had been another of their routines: drink until they were smashed and then go to the twenty-four-hour taco shop at about two in the morning. She’d get carne asada fries, and he’d always get… She chewed on her lip. Stupid memory. She could sense the word, the way her mouth moved to form it… but nothing happened.
And then like the engine in his old truck, her brain sputtered and turned over, the spark finally catching.
“The lengua burrito,” she whispered to herself. Thank God. Sometimes the word didn’t come as quickly as that and she’d find herself in a rage, at herself, at her dumb brain, at the whole world, desperately trying to remember while not giving in to that rage.
He heard despite her whispering. “Yeah, I would have gotten one, but Lil would kill me if I ruined my supper.”
Leonora would ruin her dinner with these, but it had been so long since she’d had them she didn’t care. She’d never eaten these with her parents—only ever with Josh. Her family didn’t know that she loved carne asada fries, so they never brought them to her. And it hadn’t occurred to her to go get her own.
But he knew. He’d remembered and brought them to her, a small slice of her old life.
She grabbed the plastic fork and took up a big bite, the plastic bending but not breaking as she filled the tines. She chewed slowly.
Oh, that was good. Guacamole and spicy, smoky beef, and greasy, salty fries. Heaven. She took another bite, just as good as the first.
This was exactly the secret knowledge she’d been wanting from him. These little bits her injury had erased from her. As she took another bite, the memories of all the other times she’d eaten these surfaced—happy, and buzzed, and on fire for him most of the time.
The echoes of those emotions rippled through her. Was she feeling them because of the memories… or because he was here beside her now?
She slowed down and took a breath. There was no need to scarf the food, no matter how good it was. “We used to eat these after a night out. Remember?”
He nodded, his gaze heavy. “I do.”
Of course. That was why he’d brought them. She looked to her food, then to him, then back to the food. Suddenly she realized what she’d really meant to ask. “Do you drink anymore?”
His gaze dropped to his lap, at his linked hands there. “No.” There was an odd rasp to his voice. “Do you?”
Her heart kicked in relief. “My head’s already loopy enough.” She gave him a wry smile.
He didn’t give her one in return. “You keep talking about how messed up your head is, but I’ve got to say, I don’t see it.” At her sharp look, he went on. “I’m not saying you’re lying or it’s not as bad as you say. It’s just hard for me to see it in you.”
That was the problem: people saw the scar, but no one could see the rest. The weirdness in her vision, the vertigo, the headaches, even the personality changes that sounded a lot like how she’d been before—those were hidden, for the most part.
She could’ve said something about how he was comparing her to how she’d been just after the accident—but he hadn’t seen her then, other than that once in the hospital room. He didn’t really know how low she’d been at one point. When he said it was hard for him to see her injuries, he made it sound as if he were comparing her to the Leonora of five years ago.
She was different now, wasn’t she? She felt different. Everyone insisted she was different. So she must be.
“I mean, it’s there,” she said. “I definitely feel it.” Even now, with her diminished vision and him to one side of her, she was finding it hard to focus on him. For some reason her brain kept throwing up the image of his face five years ago rather than how he looked today. She closed her bad eye and cocked her head, tilting until his face aligned with the face in her memory.
Yes, he was definitely different.
“Can you tell me about it?” he asked, his voice rough with suppressed emotion. “About the things that are different?”
She pointed to her head. “Well, there’s this.”
As she’d wanted, his eyes crinkled in the beginnings of a smile. “Yeah, I got that part.”
That was better. She had enough of people looking sad while she told them about her injuries. She pointed to her eye next. “My right eye doesn’t work anymore. Well, as far as they can tell the eye is fine. It’s the part of my brain that receives information from that eye that’s messed up. Cortical blindness they call it.”
“Is that why you’re looking at me so funny?”
Oh shit. She was. She opened her right eye and straightened her neck. “Yeah, sometimes I have to look funny at things in order to be able see them properly.” And sometimes I forget I’m doing it. Which had led to more than one embarrassing moment at the library. And elsewhere.
“And did you see me properly?”
Her cheeks heated at the deep velvet of his tone. “I did.” She rushed on to finish listing off her symptoms, wanting to get all her imperfections out before things could get any more intimate. “I also get vertigo sometimes—I’ve fallen down occasionally. But that’s more rare. Now the headaches… Well, they don’t come as often as they use to. They’re more than headaches really. Worse than migraines even. I can’t eat, I can’t talk… I’m in bed for days.”
Her stomach rolled as she remembered the last one she’d had. The pain, the dizziness, the endless nausea. And then the pain again.
“Jesus.” He rubbed a hand over his mouth, his face ashen.
“Those don’t happen very often,” she reassured him. At least not anymore. “There are other things too.” She tried to smile, as if this next was going to be funny. “Poor impulse control, surges of irrational anger.” She ticked the symptoms off like the neurologist had. As if a transformation in her entire personality was just one of those things: an expected side effect.
He raised his eyebrows. “Really? Hell, you were like that before.”
Her back snapped straight, and she caught the edge of the table. “What?”
“Yeah.” A corner of his mouth tipped up. “You did things at the drop of a hat. Spontaneity, that was your middle name.” He tucked his tongue into his cheek, looking about ten years younger and naughty to boot. “And hoo boy, did you have a temper. It was glorious to see. You did things—everything—with fire.”
He rubbed his fingers together as if they burned. Her skin tingled at the sight. Or maybe at his words. Or both.
Wow. He made it sound like those were good things. But they couldn’t be. No one else said they were. “Really?”
“Yeah. You don’t remember?”
“I do, but…” Explaining to him why those things were bad was weird. As if she were defending something she didn’t really believe herself. “When I did impulsive stuff before the accident, maybe it was only acting out. Maybe I would have grown out of it. And now… Well, now it might just be a symptom and not really me. I have no way of ever knowing.”
She’d never confessed that to anyone, not even the therapist she’d seen after the accident. Then she’d spouted back what all the medical personnel had wanted to hear: Yes, I know the impulsiveness is bad. I’m working on it. Yes, I know my anger might be inappropriate. I’m working on it.
They’d called her a model patient, but she’d felt like more of a blank space.
Josh cocked his eyebrow. “Based on how you were before and how you are now, I’d say you’re still all you. Brain injury or no.”
That was… that was exactly what she needed to hear although she hadn’t known it until he’d said it.
“What were you like before?” she asked. She remembered of course, but she wanted to hear from him. Did he see himself as a waste? Or were there some bits of goodness in his old self?
“Same as you.” His mouth twisted wryly. “Which is why we got along so well.”
“And what are you like now?” Because he wasn’t the same. Mostly, yes, but enough was different that she could call him changed.
“I don’t know,” he admitted with naked honesty. “That’s something I’ll have to figure out.” He studied his hand, braced on the bench between them, his fingers spread wide. “How’d you get started at the library?”
Ah, so the deep confessions part was over. Which was fine with her. “Sasha told me about a job opening. And since she already worked there, it was all right with my parents.”
He wouldn’t look up at her. “They keep you close, don’t they?” The question was strained.
“Too close, it feels like sometimes.” They meant well, and she completely understood why they worried… but an acknowledgment of how well she was doing might be nice.
He looked up then, the blue of his eyes opaque. “They worry about you. They always have.”
“Yeah, but I’m not made out of porcelain.” She pointed to her head. “Clearly I can survive some gnarly stuff.”
Survive and thrive, actually.
Josh didn’t laugh. He just looked sad as he went back to staring at his hand.
She glanced down herself. Huh. His left ring finger was misshapen. It hadn’t been like that before. Without thinking, she picked up his hand to get a better look. “What happened?”
It looked as if it had been broken and poorly reset. The nail had deep ridges in it, meaning it had probably grown back after being torn off. One of Jackson’s fingers looked like that, thanks to his construction work, but she’d never imagined Josh’s fingers could look like that.
“You don’t want to know.” His voice went deep and scratchy.
“Was it that bad? Prison?”
He laughed, but it held no amusement. “No. I mean, it wasn’t fun, but compared…” He bit his lip, his fingers jerking within her grasp.
She knew what he was leaving out. Compared to what she’d been through, it was nothing. She rubbed her thumb along his finger, learning the new, crooked curves of it.
She’d once known his body as well as her own. Although hers had changed since he’d seen it last—she had more scars. She wondered if his had changed as well. She wondered if she’d ever have the opportunity to find out.
He suddenly pulled his hand from hers.
She blinked at him in surprise. Had she done something wrong?
“Look.” His voice sounded as if he were dragging it from the bottoms of his feet. “I know you want to hear about our times together, but I don’t know if this will work.” He kept his gaze averted, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard.
She’d misread things—she shouldn’t have touched him. She’d thought since he’d kissed her last time… She pulled a hard, rasping breath. Misreading people happened to her all the time; she’d just thought it couldn’t happen with him. Which was silly.
“Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” She hated the wobble in her voice. Don’t cry.
He released a shaky breath. “Sorry, it’s just you touching me… It’s killing me.”
Her distress vanished, chased off by a heat fanned by his words. Ignited by his words, really. “You… you still want me?”
“Want?” He slowly turned to her and then took her face in his hands. They were warm, a little rough, and felt so right. “I still love you.”
That was… She dragged in air, needing something to cool the sweet burn of that. It was weighty and needed and freeing. It was that thing she craved most of all—it was real.
She closed the distance between them and pressed her mouth against his.
Memory and reality converged to form him. Familiar and new all at once. He must still be using his old soap since his scent was overwhelmingly familiar. His mouth was soft and demanding, like it always had been. But his shoulders beneath her hands had a new hardness and leanness.
He kissed her cheeks, her chin, her jawline, brushed his mouth against her brow, her eyelids, and her nose. As if he were relearning her as well. He went softly, slowly, reverently, but her desire kicked hot and high all the same.
She hadn’t dated while he’d been away, hadn’t even really looked at any men. There just hadn’t been space for that as she grasped for a new hold on life. Not that her parents would have allowed her to date anyway. But touching him again… He lit her up like no one else could. Even her messed-up brain knew that—he was the only person she fantasized about even after the accident.
Which was maybe perverse of her, but according to him, she’d always done her own thing.
“We’re going to get caught,” he murmured against her mouth, but he didn’t sound too worried.
She found she couldn’t summon any kind of concern either. “No one comes by this place,” she said between nips at his lower lip. His stubble was scratchy, his lip soft, and the contrast drove her wild.
“Yeah, but we’re still out in the open.” His mouth didn’t leave hers. “Goddamn, but you taste delicious.”
“Do I still kiss the same?”
“Yep. Maybe better even.”
Well, that was nice to hear. She grinned at him. He grinned back. And for the first time in a long time, she felt utterly light.
She kissed him again, harder, putting more of herself into it. He caught her around the waist and dragged her closer, a noise of deep greed rumbling in his chest. He grabbed one of her knees and swung her leg over the bench. A moment later, he was straddling the bench himself, pulling her up onto his hard thighs. It was impulsive and wild and so, so ill thought out—but Leonora wouldn’t have stopped even if Jackson himself walked up.
She’d had five years of being weak, timid, and uncertain. She was going to be everything but that in this moment.
She slid her hands under the cotton of his T-shirt, her fingertips tripping along the washboard of his abs. That was different. He’d been muscular before, but now he was cut. Etched.
“Did you work out a lot in prison?” she panted against his mouth.
“Every day,” he rumbled.
That only got her hotter, imagining him shirtless, sweaty, pumping iron in the yard.
“You’re softer,” he said, running his hands along her waist and hips.
She pulled back and raised an eyebrow. “Fatter?”
“No.” From the way he said it, he meant it. “You’ve grown into this lushness.” He cupped her breasts. “You look like hell on wheels, lady.”
“I’m going to take that as a good thing.” She couldn’t remember him looking at her like that before, reverent and wondering. And a little stunned. Maybe he had and that memory was lost.
Or maybe this was something new between them.
“It’s the best thing.” He squeezed her breasts gently. “Wow.”
Her core pulsed, partly at the motion of his hands and partly at the expression on his face. Wet heat gathered between her legs. She fisted her hands in his T-shirt, wishing she could rip it off. “Do you want to touch me?”
That had been part of their play before—she’d teased him. Sometimes without mercy.
“You know I do.” He squeezed again, his thumbs finding her nipples.
She moaned and let her head fall back. This felt… Even though it was him stoking this pleasure within her, her body felt like hers again, in a way it hadn’t for a very long time.
And he still loved her. She wasn’t certain if she still loved him, but to know that he did…
No, she wasn’t giving up these meetings. Not anytime soon.
He ran his mouth along her collarbone, hungry and intent.
“This is a terrible idea,” she whispered even as she moved her head to give him better access. It was terrible and wonderful, and she wanted more of it. Today and every day beyond.
“We were always the best at terrible ideas,” he murmured right before his mouth obliterated every coherent thought she’d ever had and ever would.