Page 36 of Until You Found Me

“Don’t leave?”

It’s a request that she knows he would never speak aloud when he’s rational and alert. It slips off his tongue so easily now, betraying his fear of doing this alone. “I’m not going anywhere.”

How many times has he collapsed by himself, hoping he might be strong enough to fetch his own food? How many times has he been here alone with only the dog, afraid he won’t wake up? She can’t imagine that knowing this reality his whole life has blunted every ounce of terror with familiarity. There’s a tremble in his body that reminds her of that rainy night on that road in front of his car. She’d been watchingit all happen outside of herself while still feeling every bit and wonders if that’s anywhere close to how he feels now, detached from everything except the fear.

She smooths his hair off his face and settles back against the side table. It’s flat enough she can rest her weight there, so she uncurls her legs to stretch out, feeling his fingers grip her arm as if she might leave.

“Won’t last long,” he whispers, his eyes rolling back in his head and his hand going slack to fall away and down.

Her face scrunches and her tears flow the moment he’s unconscious again, one hand landing over his heart to track the beats. “Please be okay. I need you. I can’t do this without you.”

It’s a selfish thing to say when he’s suffering, but it’s what tumbles out anyway and she’s only glad he’s not awake to hear it. She does need him. She can’t do this without him, doesn’t even want to try.

“We still have to go to Canada, remember? Sail the boat along the coast.” She leans her head against the wood and shuts her eyes, focusing on the steady thump rising up to meet her palm.

She still wants to call an ambulance. Still fears she’s making the wrong choice and it’ll come back to bite them both. Then again, if he wakes up to see she’s called expensive medical care that might crush him financially, he could hate her for that. She doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing, but someone here knows better than her.

The dog curls up at Logan’s side, unbothered by the cramped space between them and the wall, as if it’s routine. He rests his head on Logan’s thigh and settles in for the long haul.

The clock in the living room offers a muted tick, tick, tick.

Logan’s chest rises and falls in a rhythm that finally begins to balance.

The dog lapses into a dream, his paws twitching and jowls puffing.

Ten minutes in, Logan wakes with a flinch and collides with the bed frame. He’s working on stimulus-response and not much else, so when he feels her close, his hand flies out in self-defense.

“Logan! It’s me,” she yells, covering her face with her arms, ready for a hit that stops short with a surprising amount of self-control.

“Tessa?”

“I’m here. You passed out.’”

“Fuck. Fuck, shit, goddamn it.” He falls away from her, trying to grab the bed to haul himself up, but only succeeds in sliding back to the ground. He’s disoriented enough that what comes out of his mouth next is an incoherent mess of syllables, but he’s alive and that’s all that matters to her now.

“Let’s get on the bed, okay?” Being on the floor isn’t doing him any good and while she doubts her ability to get him up, she has to try.

He resists at first and she assumes they’re destined to lie here until he’s alert again, but then he finally sees her instead of finding some far-off point a thousand yards ahead, repeats her name with more relief than uncertainty. “Tessa?”

She cups his face with both hands, her voice soft. “It’s only me. Let me help you up.”

It’s easy after that. She gets him on the bed in an ungraceful effort until he’s lopsided against the pillows, covers him with a blanket, and collapses beside him. Her fingers circle hiswrist, needing to feel him to reassure herself that he’s still alive but too exhausted to do much else.

This wasn’t what she had in mind when she wished for him to be in bed with her.

Chapter 9

The familiar hangover of a near diabetic coma is something Logan’s used to. The funny taste in the back of his throat, the ache from wherever he’d fallen and bruised, and how his head throbs from dehydration are all routine. He handles it alone. That’s how this goes. He wakes up where he collapsed, grateful and irritated to be alive, and somehow recovers to start again. Only this time, he isn’t alone.

There’s a brief moment where he fears the warmth under his head. The pillowy softness of the person beneath him could be Lydia and his muscles go tense, defensive before she has a chance to scold him for being so fucking dramatic.

‘Are you gonna lay there and shake all day? Everything’s always about you.’

Lydia never sat with him like this, though. He never woke up to her fingers combing through his hair or the rise and fall of her belly under his ear. That’s when he realizes it has to be Tessa. He isn’t sure if that’s better or worse. He fears her seeing him like this, but after a lifetime of solitude, he can’t reject an offer of solace. He swallows hard and slams his eyes shut, committing her to memory before she comes to her senses.

He wants to stay right here, breathing in the scent of her,clean and soft. Only a taste of what he can’t keep.

“You passed out, but you’re okay now. You’re home, we’re in your bed,” she says, in the most gentle tone. “You’re safe, I promise.”

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