What He Left Behind(7)

And no, this can’t possibly get complicated.

Cursing under my breath, I rest my elbows on my desk and rub my eyes. This is worse than the helpless feeling I had when there was nothing I could do for Michael. Doing nothing beats the hell out of doing something to f*ck him up even more.

Finally, I send a text, but it’s not to Michael.

Are you absolutely sure about this?

Ian’s definitely home by now, likely grading papers. Hopefully he’s in his office or at the kitchen table—if he’s kicked back on the couch like he sometimes is, then he’s probably got either the cat or all fifty pounds of Ariel in his lap, and his phone might be out of reach.

Within thirty seconds, though, the response comes through: 100% sure.

And right after that one: I trust you.

And he needs me, my brain adds, because it’s so f*cking helpful.

I’m not nearly as confident about this as my husband, but there is one thing I’m unshakably sure about—how much I want to do something for Michael.

I glance at the clock, and it’s five minutes till six. If I want to see him tonight, we need to make a decision soon, because traffic going in his direction will be hellish if I don’t get on the road in the next twenty minutes.

So, with the clock inching toward quitting time, I text him: You busy tonight?

I hit send and pray for a response of sorry, got a date with Dr. Klein.

As I log off the computer, gather my jacket and keys and wait for the minute hand to hit the twelve, I keep an eye on my phone. At six, I leave my desk, and I’m halfway to the parking garage when the phone vibrates.

Already home. Want to come by?

Already home? But it’s—

Oh, right. He sometimes has Friday afternoons off after his therapy appointments.

Perfect. This isn’t a conversation we need to have out in public.

I text back, I’ll be there as soon as I can.

And I hope to God the drive gives me enough time to figure out what to say.

I park in the space beside Michael’s car and take the stairs up to his apartment. My heart’s going like crazy, and I’ve finally worked out exactly how to broach this subject. It’ll still be awkward and might make him balk, but at least I can get enough words out for him to consider the idea without making either of us feel like an ass if he declines.

When I reach his door, I pause with my hand on the knob, take a deep breath and go inside—he doesn’t like when people knock if he knows they’re coming because it pisses off his dog.

“In the kitchen,” he calls out.

Cody comes loping down the hallway, so I crouch and open my arms. He jumps up, tail wagging so hard it’s shaking his whole body, and I keep my chin up just enough to prevent him from licking my face. That doesn’t stop him from trying, of course.

“Cody,” Michael says, chuckling. “Get a grip. You just saw him the other day.”

“Hey. Hey. He adores me. Don’t stand in his way.”

Michael just laughs, and when I look up at him, he’s standing at the end of the hall with that bright smile on his face, and…

And my mind goes blank.

Absolutely. One hundred percent. Blank.

I came here to talk to him, and I remember why, but the words, they’re all gone. Someone straight up unplugged the server, and now I’m staring at Michael like an idiot.

He’s staring back at me, his green eyes doing nothing to help me reboot my brain.

Smile fading, he cocks his head. “What?”

Of course he can read me like a book, even when there’s nothing on the pages. I gently nudge Cody back, pet him a little and stand up.

Michael’s gaze is fixed on me. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I absently brush a few strands of dog hair off my shirt. “I kind of wanted to talk about some things.”

His eyebrows lift slightly. “Okay.” He glances over his shoulder, then looks at me again. “Coffee?”

“Sure. Yeah. Thanks.” Maybe that’ll give me time to remember how to talk to him.

With Cody hot on my heels, I follow Michael into his kitchen.

While Michael pours coffee, I’m trying hard not to wring my hands, so I play with my wedding ring instead. Somewhere inside my skull are the words I rehearsed in the car, and I rack my brain, searching frantically, but…nothing.

And then there we are, standing on opposite sides of the narrow kitchen, coffee cups in hand. Cody sits between us, tail wagging as he looks at him, then me, then him again. Apparently we’re boring, though, because he finally gets up and trots out of the room, tags jingling and nails clicking on the linoleum.

Alone, Michael and I drink in silence. I know the coffee hasn’t made it into my system yet, but I’m jittery anyway. Placebo effect, nerves—who the f*ck knows. My mental script is irretrievably gone, though, so apparently, if I’m going to give this performance, I get to wing it.

I set my coffee cup on the counter and face him. “So, I’ve been thinking about what we talked about yesterday. A lot.”

His cheeks darken and his gaze drops. “I’m sorry.” He plays with the handle on his coffee cup. “I was afraid it might upset you. I shouldn’t have unloaded it all on you like that.”

“No, no. It’s okay.” I gulp. “To get right to the point, I think maybe I can help.”