Page 51 of Enemies to French Kisses
Marc hasn’t stopped staringat his deliciouscoq-au-vinsince we sat down. The smells alone could revive the dead, but he’s not the least interested in his food. I don’t think his brother called. This must be part of the whole transition thing, because there are storm clouds over his face that I only rarely saw at Innov’ Biotech.
Despite that, we’ve found an easy rhythm between us. We don’t have to fill every moment with conversation and I don’t feel I have to be anything other than who I am.
Except for being his “wife,” that is.
In some ways though, we’ve managed to skip the whole awkward dating phase, the learning about each other and figuring each other out. He accepted me into this space as if I always belonged here.
The brass fork feels heavier in my hand at the thought.
Idon’tbelong here. This is his home, not mine. And while I’ve spent a whole lot of time acting like I’m doing him a favor by being here, he’s given me more than I give him credit for.
“Cheers,mon chou,” he lifts his glass and we toast, the clink of crystal echoing around us.
“How are you feeling, Marc?” I want to test the waters without pushing, lest that doctor get down on me again.
“Me? You’re the one who was lost in her thoughts. I’m beginning to worry about you.” He comes to my side of the table and puts his hand on mine. “You don’t have to tell me, but remember that I’m here if you want to.” As soon as he says it, he looks away, brow furrowed.
It’s that recognition thing again.
I remove my hand out from under his. “I meant your head.”
“Oh.” He touches the spot again. “I think it’s doing better, but I have this strange lingering feeling that I can’t put my finger on. Like I know something that I don’t… but that doesn’t make sense.” He looks out the window. “And the thought alone makes me tired.”
“You go rest,” I stand, taking the dishes from his hands. “I’ll clean up. You need this time.”
“Thank you.” He runs his hand across the back of my shoulders as he walks toward the bedroom. “Thank you.”
* * *
The soundof sheets pulling from side to side, Marc tossing and turning in the bed, rouses me from an otherwise deep sleep.
“Marc?”
I walk to the bed where he is thrashing about. Is he asleep? Is this related to the injury? He’s had restless nights before, but nothing like this. The sweat on his face glistens in the moonlight.
“Marc,” I whisper hoping to wake him gently. “Wake up.”
He continues to roll, but less violently.
“Shhhh,” I coo, sitting on the side of the bed. “Sleep.”
His breathing is heavy, his chest rising and falling quickly even as his body slows to a stop. His eyes open slowly and he turns his head to me. “Laura. You’re here?”
The question is clear, and his face tells me the whole story. I’m not supposed to be here, and his barely conscious mind sees that.
“Of course,” he rubs his face. “Of course, you’re here. Where else would you be?”
“Go back to sleep, Marc.”
“I had the most horrible dream.”
“It’s over now.”
“I’m afraid it will start again.” He looks at me, eyes glistening in the midnight glow.
“I’m here.”
“Laura?”
