A Warm Heart in Winter(64)

Qhuinn’s eyes returned to the rolling table. From his current angle, he couldn’t see the envelope, couldn’t read those two words that had been written upon it, couldn’t reach for the thing if he’d wanted to.

And, he realized, he didn’t want to.

He didn’t want to read whatever was in there. He’d rather have unfinished business forever . . .

. . . as opposed to confirmation that maybe, just maybe, it was his fault because he’d been too busy, too negligent, too self-centered to take care of his own blood and make sure that Luchas was getting not just the medical care he needed, but the psychological counseling that was just as important to health and well-being.

Maybe more important.





One week later, Blay opened the door to his bedroom suite’s bathroom and leaned out. Across the way, the light in the walk-in closet was glowing, the illumination spilling onto the Persian carpet, making the jewel tones even brighter. He hesitated. Then retreated back and shut the door again.

Looking around, he saw that everything was the same in the loo. The toothbrushes by the pair of sinks were in their separate holders and the pair of paste tubes, one Crest, the other Colgate, were teamed with their appropriate Oral-B partners. The Waterpik on one side was Qhuinn’s.

It had been likewise in the shower, the shampoo and conditioner bottles where they had always been. The bar of soap was just a single in a dish, as they both used Ivory.

Because it was ninety-nine percent pure. Whatever the hell that meant.

At a loss, Blay lowered the toilet seat, rewrapped the bath towel around his body, and sat down. For some reason, it seemed vitally important to cover himself even though no one was in with him—and he remembered Qhuinn sitting in the same place during that bath time right after Luchas had been found.

That was as close as he and his mate had been for the last seven nights.

Oh, physically it had been largely the same, the two of them still sleeping side by side during the day and eating next to each other during meals. And then Blay had stayed on rotation, even as Qhuinn was not cleared to go back into the field yet. He was off until he passed a psych eval.

Which, no surprise, no one had brought up and Qhuinn hadn’t volunteered for.

Through the door, a muffled voice: “I’m going to go work out.”

Blay cleared his throat and spoke louder than normal. “You’re skipping First Meal?”

“I already ate. See you soon.”

A moment later, there was a click of the door out into the hallway shutting.

Blay dropped his head in defeat. At this point, he’d almost have preferred a slam, a stomp, a loud word. Instead, there was just this eerie politeness, an auto-pilot composure that had as much to do with the Qhuinn he knew as a muffler on a Shelby Mustang: His mate had retreated somewhere deep inside his own mind, his body all that remained. He had been like a ghost, floating around the house, skipping meals, working out, spending time alone in Luchas’s room.

He hadn’t said what was in the letter.

Which scared Blay and made him replay his self-blame game. Again and again and again.

Getting to his feet, he walked out of the loo. His intention was to go and get dressed, but he ended up standing at the base of their bed. Both sets of pillows had indents on them and both sides of the sheets and covers had been halved back, the whole thing a tidy mirror image of itself. Usually, their bed was a mess: things on the floor, sheets tangled, duvet backwards or hanging off the headboard. In contrast, this disciplined disorder looked like a Sleep Number bed commercial, a stage set created to suggest that two people, a loving couple, had spent the night together.

And that was accurate, he supposed. He and his mate had been on that mattress together, although he didn’t think either one of them had actually found any REM cycles. Blay certainly hadn’t.

Pivoting to the walk-in closet, he went across and stood among their clothes. As with the pillows and sheets outside, there was a strict division, a his/his demarcation, the left all Blay’s, the right all Qhuinn’s.

It was the same with the bed. Left was his, right was Qhuinn’s.

The arrangement in here hadn’t been a particularly conscious thing, just a yours-and-mine that had made sense. They were pretty close in size, but the styles? Not a thing in common.

He’d have been surprised if the guy had ever worn a loafer in his life. Okay, fine, maybe when Qhuinn had been younger and in his parents’ house.

With duct tape to keep them on, no doubt.

Blay went for his fighting clothes, taking a set of leathers off the hooks that were screwed into the wall. But then he remembered. He was off rotation tonight. Frankly, ever since Luchas’s death, he’d been surprised that he’d been allowed to go out at all, and he supposed that the continued a-okay meant he was doing a good job hiding everything he was feeling.

As a corollary, he was also surprised Qhuinn hadn’t brought up his suspension from the field yet. The fact that there was no fight to get back on rotation from him was scary. Just like his weight loss, and his listless disinterest in anything but the kids. Seriously, thank God for the twins. It was clear that Rhamp and Lyric were keeping their father going, the nightly jobs of giving them baths and changing their clothes and feeding them seeming to consume all of Qhuinn’s attention and focus.

Trying to stop the mind spins, Blay got dressed, pulling on a random button-down, a random set of slacks, the closest sweater. He was putting on socks when he realized he’d decided to leave the house.