Page 114 of The Unlikely Pair
Toby is silent for a long time while he deals out the hand. We’re up to eight cards, so it takes him a considerable amount of time.
“My mother had one relationship when I was a teenager,” he says finally. “And I had to deal with the repercussions of that.”
“What happened?”
Toby’s mouth settles into a thin line as he picks his hand up.
“Her boyfriend…he didn’t treat her very well while they were together,” he replies. “Then he broke up with her unexpectedly, right before she got sick. I know there’s no medical evidence, but she was so heartbroken, and I think she didn’t have the emotional reserve to fight the cancer.”
I sort my cards into suits, my mind churning.
If Toby bore witness to his mother going through heartbreak not once but twice, it’s no wonder he puts barriers in place to protect himself. It’s no wonder he’s developed hisI don’t need anyone elseattitude. It’s self-protection.
Talking about this has made Toby upset. The evidence is in the tension in his jaw, the way his hands tighten around his cards.
He looks at me, those hazel eyes brimming with some emotion I can’t quite discern. A mixture of sadness and anger.
“Are you ready to bid?” I ask.
He suddenly puts his cards on the floor. “Actually, let’s call it a night. I’m tired.”
I try to hide my surprise. “All right.”
Toby stands abruptly. “I’m going to bed.”
He stalks around the cabin doing his usual bedtime routine, brushing his teeth over the bucket, banking the fire while I pack up the cards.
When I make it to bed and slide under the covers, he’s lying stiffly on one side. The bed is small, but it normally doesn’t matter.
I gingerly reach out my arm to touch his, because that’s what happens every night when we’re in bed together. We have sex. It’s routine now, and it’s definitely a better sleep aid than a hot chocolate.
But instead of coming towards me with a snarky comment, Toby flops onto his back to stare at the ceiling.
“Sorry…I’m just not in the mood tonight,” he says.
“That’s all right,” I reply softly.
We lie rigidly on our narrow bed with less than an inch between us, not touching, only staring at the ceiling.
I wish I knew what was going on inside Toby’s brain right now.
But I’ve got another conundrum to occupy my mind.
Why does seeing Toby hurting hurt me too?
I turn onto my side and try to fall asleep, but the enticements of Hypnos, god of sleep, evade me tonight.
Something doesn’t feel right. I realize it’s because I’m not touching Toby. Since our first night out here, we’ve always slept with our bodies curled together.
From the way Toby is tossing and turning on the other side of the bed, he’s also finding it difficult to sleep.
Suddenly, I feel shifting on the mattress, and Toby is here, nestling his face into my chest, his arm settling around my waist.
“I can’t get to sleep without holding you,” he says sleepily.
Happiness inflates my insides, and I put my arms around him, pulling him tighter against me.
And finally, I’m able to relax and let sleep claim me.
