The question came out of the left field of her mind and thunder-bolted into her heart. "This is nice," she agreed, trying to distance herself from that bare all or shut up intrusion of judgment. "Just the two of us."

 

She was going to add, again, how much his close call today scared her, when he murmured, "Sometimes it feels like four" under his breath and then took a quick sip of his beer, his eyes scanning the room thoughtfully.

 

"What?" she prodded softly, trying to move and bent to look in his eyes, "What did you say?"

 

"What, what?" he said, looking back at her and this time he wasn't lying. He probably had no idea he said that out loud.

 

"You said something about," she hesitated, not sure if this was a wise choice to make. She took a breath and started again, "You said something about it feeling like there were four, not two of us here."

 

His eyes widened a little, then he regained his composure, "Did I?"

 

"Can you tell me what you meant, what you mean?"

 

He scanned the room again and readjusted himself under her. "I have no idea what is going on with me. Flashbacks or some shit. Maybe it's the stress from this afternoon that is fucking with me. That makes sense, right? I mean, it's not an everyday occurrence, thankfully."

 

"I'm very glad to hear it," she nodded, "you… well… that event and you afterward and the thought of losing you just after we decided to take a risk and get together really ripped fresh scars inside of me.”

 

She sighed and took a breath. “I've never shaken like that before. It was like some really good things were just beginning and then … Cole? I could have been there for five or six maddening hours waiting for you, never fully finding out later what happened, and losing… everything, for no good reason."

 

"Everything?" he grinned, rubbing his hand up and down her thigh, producing what she felt was definitely and unfair level of distraction. "What? Like three kids and your frustration with aerobics not being the cure-all you continuously demand it to be?" he chuckled, and took a long drink, then said, "I need another beer." Then he slid her off his lap, not noticing that she was gaping at him with her mouth open or that her eyes were bugging to the point of pain. "You want one?" he called back into the living room.

 

She shook herself. "Got anything stronger? Whiskey? Gin? Heroin?" she joked.

 

"You don't have to get me drunk to seduce me," he said off-handedly. "I have tequila, left over from a poker game."

 

"Who the fuck has left over tequila? How long has it been there?" she asked with an appalled voice.

 

"I don't think it spoils," he told her.

 

"How long?"

 

"About six months," he guessed, looking up, calculating. "Yeah, about that."

 

"For six months you have had tequila in your home and have never, in all that time, had a reason, or good lack of reason, to have a few shots?" she asked, her amusement ripe, covering her shakes and the knotting inside her gut. "Bring that bad boy over here."

 

"I have this funny insight that tells me I should say no, bad girl, lay down," he said with a puzzled face as he set down fresh beers and then a double shot of tequila for each of them.

 

"That better have been a joke," she teased.

 

"I wish I knew," he murmured under his breath, "Post stress has never affected me like this. I'm sorry if I'm fucking up our day."

 

"We will enjoy another and no, you aren't fucking it up at all. I'm having a very good time, aside from a few hours ago when people were attempting to take you from me; the day has been one of the best I've had in … well… forever. A red letter day for sure."

 

"If you bothered to keep a journal, that might mean something," he said softly and not really to her. Then in his regular voice, he said, "What makes it so good?"

 

She was sitting up straighter now, searching his eyes. Something was going on with him, but she doubted it had anything to do with the stress.

 

He's having similar experiences! Both of us! What the fuck?

 

"Well," she started, watching him intently and combing her hands through his thick, dark hair. "I discovered a personal goal today. Something I could become passionate about. Something that drives me to complete it. I've never experienced anything like this before."

 

"What's the goal?" he asked.

 

"How do you know I don't journal?" she asked, avoiding his question.

 

"What?"

 

"You alluded to the fact that I often talk about journaling, but never actually do it. How do you know that about me?" she asked.

 

"I … um…" he said searching his head and then he shook it, and looked at her, a little unfocused, "You know, it kind of irritates me when you have something to say, but are nervous about it, so instead of saying it, you dig and poke at me to see if I'll come up with it from the line of questions you are asking. If you have something, then say it."

 

Then he stopped and stuck is tongue into his cheek, and looked so endearing suddenly, she almost forgot that last tirade of his. "And I," he started carefully, choosing his words almost one by one, while looking around for answers, "have not known long enough to say that to you. I'm sorry. Something isn't right."

 

Shaking, she said softly, "No, you were right. Exactly right. That's exactly what I've been doing. I do know something and I am very nervous about telling you, and I'm even more nervous about why it is happening."

 

She now had his full, undivided attention. "Go on," he pressed softly.