Page 29 of Parallel

“Hey,” says Nick quietly, while Darcy and her mom talk to the nurse who’s popped in the room. His hand clasps mine for a millisecond to get my attention, and I glance up at him. “Are you okay?”

I nod, staring at the cake that rests in my lap. “I don’t know how you do this.”

He hesitates. “I couldn’t if it was always like this. But occasionally, instead, you get a woman in who tells you only the most boring details about your honeymoon in Paris.”

I laugh. “Maybe if you’d been more interesting in Paris, I’d have better details to share.”

“I refuse to believe the fault lies with me. I bet you’re the type who wants to play Words With Friends on a date. Or insists on showing me one video after another of your cat jumping around in the snow.”

It’s a struggle to look stern. “My cat, if I had one, would be fascinating. You would love my cat videos if I chose to share them with you.”

“Yeah?” His lashes lower and I get a glimpse of that secret smile of his again, the seductive one. I picture myself pulling the cake from his hands and climbing into his lap, but I realize as it plays out in my head, it isn’t a fantasy, it’s a memory. We were in our flat on his birthday, with the sun’s dwindling rays streaming in through the kitchen windows, and I was in his lap. I remember kissing the corner of his jaw, shifting against him and relishing the tiny way he inhaled at the motion. His right hand slid into my hair, grasping a thick handful of it as he pulled my mouth to his.

My fork falls to the floor. Christy and Darcy don’t seem to notice, but Nick’s eyes flicker to my mouth, as if he knows exactly what was going on in my head. I’m so grateful he doesn’t. While this would all be easier if he remembered things in the same detail I do, it would also be ten times more awkward.

I focus on Christy and Darcy, trying to pull my mind out of the gutter. I ask Christy about the candle business she runs out of her home, solely to think about something—anything—else, and then tell them I need to head to the Metro before it gets dark.

“I’ll walk with you,” Nick says.

I still. Spending time with him outside the walls of this hospital is a terrible idea. I should tell him no. But I’ve got no idea how to do it gracefully, and—more importantly—I don’t want to. The idea of more time with Nick thrills me as much as it terrifies me.

15

NICK

I live nowhere near the Metro, but I assure myself there’s nothing inappropriate in what I’m doing. She did a nice thing for my patient. Seeing her safely to her destination is just common courtesy.

But there’s been nothing appropriate about my reaction to her tonight. Not from the first moment she appeared at the door, all flushed cheeks and bright eyes and uncertainty.

We walk quietly, in step, down Reservoir to 34th Street. Even though school is out, the sidewalks are clogged. My hand reaches out to the small of her back to keep us side by side.

“I had another dream last night,” she says.

“More torrid memories from our honeymoon?”

Her laugh is throaty. God, I’d give anything to know what she remembers of this supposed trip to Paris. “The opposite of torrid,” she replies, her smile fading. “I dreamed we were in the hospital.”

“I apparently really knew how to show you a good time in my past life.”

Her mouth twitches into a grin. “Yes. I’m sure it was a high point in our relationship.”

It’s so damn comfortable with her. It’s comfortable with Meg too, but this is easier somehow, which is a really unfair comparison. Of course it’s going to be easier with Quinn—she has no expectations of me. I might not even see her again after tonight. “So, what happened in this dream of yours?”

She swallows. Whatever she saw, it bothers her even now. “We were in the hospital and it seemed like I was dying or really sick, I’m not sure. And then this woman came into the room, and I knew she was going to take me away from you. It’s the same dream I had as a kid.”

We reach a crowd of people waiting to cross M Street and stop. “But I wasn’t in that dream when you were a kid.”

“Yeah,” she says slowly. “You were.”

I blink, wondering if this is a joke. The crowd moves forward and I remain standing here, stupefied. “That is completely impossible.”

“Even when I was small, I told my parents about you. That your name was Nick and you were my husband. I’m sure it must have freaked them out.”

“That—”

She laughs, the sound weary. “Is completely impossible? Yes, I know. But my parents sent me to therapy because of those nightmares. It’s all documented. You could argue it wasn’t the same you, but I swear to God it was.”

I rub my temples. I believe her. And yet, it is wholly unbelievable. “I don’t even know what to say.”