“You okay?” he asks.
I nod, unsure if my voice is going to work if I try to speak.
“Lock the door behind me,” he says. “Check all the windows. Sleep with the phone. Just to be sure.”
This is not comforting. I swallow back a sour taste rising in the back of my throat. “Maybe you should give me the ammo back? For Mom’s gun?”
It’s like a curtain drops over his face. All the softness is gone between one breath and the next. That hard, clenched look comes back. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“You got me thinking. Mom had the gun for a reason. Maybe I need one, too.”
“You don’t know how to use it. Guns are dangerous—”
“Just give me the ammo. Okay? If I use it, trust me, something more dangerous is going on.”
He hesitates. “Tell you what. I’ll just stay.”
I have no idea how to take that. Before I can protest, he gives me his easy, disarming smile. “You’ll sleep better if you don’t have to worry. I’ll sleep in the recliner. If there’s any trouble, I’ll take care of it.”
This doesn’t solve my problems, really. Any of them.
“You need to sleep.”
“I can sleep in the chair. Besides, I’m used to taking night shifts.”
There’s no tactful way to tell him I don’t necessarily feel safer with him locked in on my side of the door.
He misreads the pause and goes on. “Look, it’s not anything about you being a woman and needing a man to protect you. Mia’s almost better with a gun than I am. But you’re not in the best of shape to be learning about guns. You’re too shocked, too tired. After the funeral, how about I take you, the gun, and the ammo out shooting? Show you basic gun safety, teach you how to take a basic shot. And then I’ll give it back to you. Okay?”
“Yes? I don’t know. I’ve never been to my mother’s funeral before. Don’t know how I’ll be after.”
His face softens, then. He reaches out, hand curved, as if he’s going to cup my cheek, but then lets it drop with a small slapping sound against his thigh.
“Not tomorrow. In a couple of days.”
“And you’re going to play bodyguard that many nights running? I thought you had a job.”
“There’s always Mia,” he says, “only you’d never get any sleep because she can’t stop talking.”
“Tony, I don’t know . . .”
“Please,” he says, in the way I picture a starving man requesting a piece of bread. And then that smile, lightning swift and unexpected, totally disarms me. “Mama will have a fit if I don’t do my part. Please don’t put me in the way of a butt-smacking.”
His words present an image of his gentle mother, five feet tall and very round, waving a belt at her tall and burly offspring. Laughter bubbles up before I can stop it. “Is she as dangerous as Mia? Because that sounds terrifying.”
“Every bit. Hang on—I’ll just give Mia the keys. That way you don’t have to wait up to let me in. Okay?”
“I’m sleeping on the couch.”
“I’ll be extremely quiet. You won’t even know I’m here.”
My last bit of resistance is destroyed by a gleefully rebellious thought of Greg’s disapproval.
I wait on the porch while Tony jogs down the sidewalk to hold a conference with Mia. She waves at me through the open driver’s side window and slams the car into reverse, spinning the tires as she backs out of the driveway.
Tony walks back up the sidewalk toward me, and I lean against the railing for support. The reality of his maleness is nearly overwhelming. Just the idea of sleeping on the couch while he sits a few feet away in the chair, maybe watching me, sends blood flowing to all sorts of places it shouldn’t.
It doesn’t help when he holds the door open and gestures for me to enter the house first. I duck my head to pass under his arm and catch a whiff of musk and deodorant and sweat. He’s all muscle and testosterone, and oh my God it’s been so long.
Self-conscious, still wearing my T-shirt and my jeans, taking off only my socks, I lie down on the couch and pull the blanket up to my chin. Tony turns out the light, plunging us both into darkness. When my eyes adjust, I can make out shapes and shadows, thanks to the cracked-open drapes in the living room window. Tony is invisible in the dark rectangle that is my father’s armchair. I picture him in my mind like a movie sheriff, with a star pinned to his shirt and a shotgun laid across his lap.
For a long time I lie there, wide awake, my body exhausted but thrumming with energy that won’t let me sleep. My consciousness flits around, homing in on small sounds. My breathing. Tony’s breathing. The occasional creak of a floorboard.
“Can’t sleep?” Tony asks, after a long while of lying there, eyes wide open, staring up at nothing.
“Kinda wound up.” Three breaths. And then, “You were right, about Greg. He did hit me. Only the once. Under provocation.” The memory feels as fresh as if it happened today, not over twelve years ago. My face actually hurts, although it’s probably because I have my jaw clamped so tight it’s hard to swallow.
“Bastard,” Tony says.
Silence again. My breathing. His breathing.
The heater kicks on with a low hum. Outside, a car drives by.
Just when I begin to accept that I am not going to sleep tonight, that I might as well get up and make coffee and do something useful, Tony’s voice floats out of the darkness.
“My sisters and I used to play a game when we couldn’t sleep. I could teach you, if you want.”
Something in his voice, wistful, hesitant, makes me sit up and stare as hard as I can into the shadows to try to read his expression. But all I can see of him is his silhouette, a solid shape in the dark.
“Okay,” I answer, cautiously. “Because apparently I am not sleeping anytime soon.”
“It’s a kids’ game,” he says. “So bear with me. There’s a verse to go with it. Like a nursery rhyme, sort of.”
“Like ‘Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater’?”
He laughs. “More like Truth or Dare. No. Wait. God, no. Not like Truth or Dare at all. There’s a lullaby and . . . oh, never mind. I’m not helping much, am I?”
“Sing it,” I tell him, wrapping the blanket around me like a shawl and huddling into its warmth.
“What? Now?”
“I can’t sleep, and you are holding out on me with this lullaby.”
“You’re serious.” A silence stretches between us. Another car drives by on the late-night street and then is gone, and we’re back to the sounds of breathing. Tony’s. Mine. The rustle of my blanket as I shift my weight and lie back down on the couch. Of course he’s not going to sing. The idea is ridiculous.
My mouth is already open to tell him to just explain this game to me, when he takes a breath and does begin to sing, after all. The melody is haunting, his voice a clear, sweet tenor. And before he gets through the first two lines, my heart is vibrating to the tune of grief in E minor.
Whisper me this, my darling, my love
The song of the moonlight, of stars up above
Whisper me truth, love, and whisper me lies
Warm days of winter, cold summer skies
Whisper me anger, whisper me rain
Whisper me flowers, then whisper me pain
When I come to die, love, then whisper me this
The shape of a memory, the truth of a kiss.
Whisper me, whisper me, whisper me this
A lifetime of memories, and one final kiss.
Silent tears well up and spill over, tracking down my cheeks, but it’s a beautiful pain, half grief, half pleasure. When the last note fades away, the silence that follows is alive with emotion. His. Mine. I want to cross the room, settle down in his lap, and rest my head on his chest.
It’s all too much. Too much sadness, too much beauty, too much intimacy with a relative stranger. I blot my face with the blanket and try to settle my shaky breath.
“That is a lullaby?” I ask, breaking the mood.
He clears his throat. I hear his weight shift in the chair. “My mother used to sing it to us. I always thought it was. I never realized what a sad song it is.”
“And there’s a game that goes with this happy song?”
“Whisper Me This. That’s the name of the game.”