Virtuous(77)

As I withdraw a carton of eggs from the fridge and begin making an omelet with cheese, tomatoes and peppers that I slice into thin strips, I wonder if I did something wrong. But what could I have done in my sleep?

Oh God… Did I say something? Did I talk about the attack? I falter mid-slice, and a searing pain in my finger requires my full attention. Blood pours from the cut on my index fingertip. I run it under cold water, but the blood keeps coming. I can barely bother to focus on the cut with the possibility looming over me that I said something I didn’t mean to in my sleep.

Flynn returns to the kitchen, where I’m applying pressure to the cut with a paper towel wrapped around my finger. “What happened?” He’s wearing gym shorts and a gray T-shirt.

“Knife met finger. I wasn’t paying attention.” I can’t even look at him as the fear pulses through me like a heartbeat, leaving me panicked and light-headed. As much as I don’t want to know, I have to ask. “Did I do something or say something in my sleep?”

He looks up from examining the cut. His expression is nothing short of stricken. “What?”

“Something happened. You’re different. I want to know if it was me. Did I say something or—”

“No, God no, Natalie.”

“Then what’s wrong? You came in from your run, and everything feels different. Have you changed your mind about wanting me here? Because if you have—”

“No.” He puts his arms around me and holds me. I’m immediately enveloped in the fresh clean scent he brought with him from the shower. “I haven’t changed my mind. I had a dream that upset me. I was up most of the night. I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you woke up. I expected you’d sleep in, so I went for a run. I saw Addie coming in as I was leaving, so I knew she’d be here when Tenley came.”

“Do you… Do you want to talk about your dream?”

“I… No, not really.”

“You know how you tell me I can trust you?” He nods. “You can trust me, too. I hope you know that.”

“I do, sweetheart. I trust you. If I didn’t trust you, you wouldn’t be here.”

“You trust me with your home, and I’m honored by that. But that’s just real estate. If you don’t trust me with what’s in here,” I say as I rest my hand over his heart, “the rest doesn’t mean very much.”

He stares at me in that intense, all-consuming way of his. “You know how there’re some things you said you won’t talk about—ever?”

“Yes.”

“I have a few things that fall into that category, too.”

“Fair enough.”

“Maybe someday we can have a ‘share our secrets’ conversation.”

“Maybe.”

“Until then, I’m kind of starving.”

“Me, too.”

He tends to my cut finger with antibacterial ointment and a bandage before we enjoy the omelets and toast as well as the fresh fruit he tells me he eats every day at breakfast. We discover we like our coffee exactly the same way—with cream and a quarter teaspoon of sugar. Real sugar. None of the fake stuff for us. After breakfast, I get dressed in shorts and a tank top.

Flynn hands me a tube of sunscreen. “You’re going to need this. And this.” He puts a ball cap on my head.

“How come?”

“We’re taking a convertible and going sightseeing.”

Yet another car awaits us in front of the house. This one, he tells me, is a Porsche Boxster. It’s a beautiful bright red.

“Is it new?”

“Nope. It’s a ’96. First-generation Boxster. A bit of a collector’s item.”

“So this car thing goes back a while, huh?”

He opens the passenger door for me. “Um, yeah.”

“Your sisters might be right about that twelve-step program.”

“Again I remind you there are worse addictions I could have. There’s heroin and cocaine and meth and booze and pills and women and—”

“All right. I get it.”

He starts the car and hits the gas, launching us into motion. “I don’t like to think of it as an addiction so much as a collection.”

“And how many cars make up this collection?”

“You want like a number?”

“Yes,” I say, laughing at his obvious discomfort, “a number would be good.”