The Obsession(92)

He kept talking to her. She didn’t really register the words, just the hands on her face, the blue of his eyes. The burn eased, the weight lifted.

“Sorry. Sorry.”

“Don’t be stupid. Water’s right there, on your nightstand. I’m not going anywhere.”

He reached around her, picked up the bottle, uncapped it. “Slow on this, too.”

She nodded, sipped. “I’m all right.”

“Not yet, but close. You’re cold.” He rubbed those work-rough hands up and down her arms. He looked over her shoulder, said, “Ease off now.”

She glanced over, saw Tag with his front paws on the bed.

“I woke up the dog, too. At the risk of being stupid on your scale, I am sorry. Nightmare.”

Not her first, he thought, but the first time he’d seen the full-blown panic. “Not surprising, considering. You should get back under the blankets, warm up.”

“You know, I think I’ll get up, try to work awhile.”

“Nothing much to take pictures of at . . . three twenty in the morning.”

“It’s not just taking them.”

“I guess not. We should go down, scramble some eggs.”

“Scramble eggs? In the middle of the night.”

“It’s not the middle of the night on your time clock. Yeah, eggs. We’re up anyway.”

“You don’t have to be,” she began, but he just rolled out of bed.

“We’re up,” he repeated, and walked over to open the doors. Tag bulleted out. “Up and out. Waffles,” he considered, glancing over to study her as he pulled on pants. “I bet you could make waffles.”

“I could, if I had a waffle maker. Which I don’t.”

“Too bad. Scrambled eggs, then.”

She sat a moment, bringing her knees up to her chest.

He just handled things, she thought. Nightmares, panic attacks, hurt dogs on the side of the road, dead bodies at the foot of the bluff.

How did he do it?

“You’re hungry.”

“I’m awake.” He picked up the cotton pants and T-shirt he’d gotten off her in the night, tossed them in her direction.

“Do you like eggs Benedict?”

“Never had it.”

“You’ll like it,” Naomi decided, and got out of bed.

He was right. The normality of cooking breakfast soothed and calmed. The process of it, the scents, a good hit of coffee. The raw edges of the dream, of memories she wanted locked away, faded off.

And she was right. He liked her eggs Benedict.

“Where has this been all my life?” he wondered as they ate at the kitchen counter. “And who’s Benedict?”

She frowned over it, then nearly laughed. “I have no idea.”

“Whoever he was, kudos. Best four A.M. breakfast I’ve ever had.”

“I owed you. You came when I called, and you stayed. I wouldn’t have asked you to stay.”

“You don’t like to ask.”

“I don’t. That’s probably a flaw I like to think of as self-reliance.”

“It can be both. Anyway, you’ll get used to it. To asking.”

“And you brought me out of a panic attack. Have you had experience there?”

“No, but it’s just common sense.”

“Your sense,” she corrected. “Which also had you distracting me with eggs.”

“Really good eggs. Nothing wrong with self-reliance. I’d be a proponent of that. And nothing wrong with asking either. It’s using that crosses the line. We’re in a thing, Naomi.”

“A thing?”

“I’m still working out the definition and scope of the thing. How about you?”

“I’ve avoided being in a thing.”

“Me, too. Funny how it sneaks up on you.” In a gesture as easy, and intimate, as his voice, he danced his fingers down her spine. “And here we are before sunup, eating these fancy eggs I didn’t expect to like with a dog you didn’t expect to want hoping there’ll be leftovers. I’m good with that, so I guess I’m good with being in a thing with you.”

“You don’t ask questions.”

“I like figuring things out for myself. Maybe that’s a flaw or self-reliance.” He shrugged. “Other times, it strikes me it’s fine to wait until somebody gives me the answers.”

“Sometimes they’re the wrong answers.”

“It’s stupid to ask then, if you’re not ready for whatever the answers are going to be. I like who you are—right here and right now. So I’m good with it.”

“Things can evolve, or devolve.” And why couldn’t she just let it go, and be right here, right now?

“Yeah, can and do. How long did you say your uncles had been together?”

“Over twenty years.”

“That’s a chunk. I bet it hasn’t been roses every day of the over twenty.”

“No.”

“How long have we been in this thing, do you think?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure when to start the clock.”

“The Day of the Dog. Let’s use that. How long ago was it we found the dog?”