Phelan drew his blankets tighter and leaned back against his pillows as Jameson darted out the door. He watched the lamp’s flame flicker and swallowed against the bile that crept higher and higher in his throat.
“Jac,” he whispered, though there was no one there to hear him. “What did I let her do to me, Jac? What happened?”
His thoughts felt fragmented, slippery like fish, as fine as sand sliding from his grasp. The past felt closer than the present, which felt like it was long past, nearly beyond his grasp. He swallowed hard and watched the lamp, trying to quell the sudden panic rising inside.
Was it like this for Ciar, I wonder? He never talked about it. I never pressed.
“Maybe I should have,” he whispered with a slight shudder. He felt hot and cold all at once and tried to remember why. It refused to come to him and he growled in frustration, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment.
“Phelan?”
He startled slightly, eyes snapping open. Her hair was loose and she wore only her sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants.
“Oh,” he said, feeling hollowed out inside. “Were you sleeping?”
“It’s okay,” she said quietly, moving toward him quickly as he struggled to push himself back up into a sitting position. “J.T. said you’d asked for me. What’s wrong?”
His fingers tangled in hers as she sat down on the edge of his bed. “I needed you,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”
“Phelan,” she said quietly, “you don’t have anything to be sorry for.”
Jameson cleared his throat. “I’ll let you two be,” he said, slipping back out and closing the door behind him.
Then they were alone. Jacqueline stared at him, ran the fingers of her free hand against his cheek and jaw.
“Do you really remember?” she breathed. “Do you know me?”
“I know enough,” he whispered back before he kissed her.
