Page 117 of The Professor's Wife

But I couldn’t.

He was going to leave me anyway.

Everyone—

Everyone I cared about left me in the end.

Tristan didn’t leave me alone for too long. He eventually came over, picked me up off that stump, and carried me back to the van. My arms were wrapped around his waist, my face buried between his neck and shoulder.

“Why are you being so nice?” I asked.

“You’re fucking joking, right?” he swiftly returned, his breathing unstrained even though I felt huge in his arms. But that was the thing with Tristan; he always acted like I was made of glass. And no, I wasn’t really big in his arms—not bulging arms like his—but I felt like my emotions were most of the weight he was carrying.

“I practically punched you in the face getting up this morning.”

He let out a laugh as he opened the passenger door and delicately put me down on the seat, facing him. He looked down at me, his smile radiant, his eyes kind. “It was definitely not the kind of wake-up I expected.”

I laughed. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” He shook his head, and now his smile faded as he watched me tenderly. “You don’t have to apologize for waking up scared, Daze. No matter what, I’m not going anywhere.”

“No matter what?” I repeated flatly.

He nodded solemnly. “Fucking oath.”

I wasn’t sure about that, but he made me want to believe him.

“I’m going to make us breakfast now and a big pot of coffee. Afterwards, we’re going to find a pool of water and take a skinny dip in the shade.”

I smiled, liking the sound of that. “How can I help?”

“You’re already helping.” He grinned and delivered a chaste kiss to my lips. “You’ve been helping me since the moment I met you.”

“Singing ‘Waves.’”

He nodded. “Singing ‘Waves.’”

“Are your song choices influenced by your current feelings?” I wondered as he opened the van door and got to work behind me.

“Most times.”

“What were you feeling when you sang ‘Waves’ that night?”

The pots and pans went quiet. I could hear him thinking from here. Just when I thought he might not answer, he said, “That I wanted to go back to when I was a little kid. I wanted my dad to take me for another drive. Another campout with random folk. I wanted to hear him tell me spooky stories around the campfire as I shivered in the giant, warm sweater of his that he put me in. I wish I could have told him I loved him one last time.”

He let out a shaky breath, murmuring, “You’re not the only one who didn’t return a call, Daze.”

My heart jumped.

He understood.

His heartbreak didn’t echo mine, but it met it like two aching chords played together. Different losses carrying the same grief.

I loved the sound we made.

I watched him, dazed, wanting.

I was falling even deeper into him.