I nodded but Wood didn’t let me go.
I sucked in breath, closed my eyes, opened them and looked at Pop.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered.
“Me too, sweetheart,” he whispered back.
I nodded again and bit my lip.
“I don’t want coffee,” Stella stated, my eyes went to her and she finished, “bourbon.”
“We have that,” I said.
“Good,” she replied.
I looked at Wood. “Coffee or bourbon?”
“Both,” Wood answered.
I looked at Pop and didn’t get a chance to speak before he said, “Same as Wood, sweetheart.”
I nodded, sucked in breath through my nose and looked up at Wood. He leaned in and kissed my forehead then he let me go.
Then I got Neeta’s grieving family their drinks.
*
“She’s dead, buddy.”
My eyes opened.
I was pressed into Tate’s back and I heard it.
A television.
The house was big but the night was quiet and I could hear it, even from far away.
Jonas’s room.
I slid carefully away from Tate trying not to disturb the covers or him and I got out of bed. I went to the closet, blindly grabbed off a hanger the first of Tate’s shirts that I found, it was a soft flannel that had been washed a gazillion times. I shrugged it on over my camisole and pajama bottoms and I stealthily left the room.
I walked through the dark house, down the backstairs and down the hall guided by the flickering light coming from Jonas’s partially opened door.
I knocked once and pushed it open.
Jonas was lying in bed, his back against the headboard, the remote held loosely in his hand resting on his lap, Buster stretched the length of his hip down his thigh. His eyes were blank on the screen and just as blank when they came to me.
“Can’t sleep?” I whispered.
He shrugged.
“Want company?” I asked.
He shrugged again.
I decided to take this as a yes and I walked forward, crawled into bed with him and rested my back against the headboard.
It took me awhile before I got the courage to slide my arm around his shoulders and pull the side of his body into mine.
I should have known, with my sweet Jonas, I didn’t have to find the courage.
He immediately curled into a ball and slid down so his head was resting on my belly and his arm was wrapped around my hips.
I carefully pulled in breath, slid my fingers through his hair and I kept doing that as we watched TV.
I knew Jonas had long since fallen asleep but was loathe to disturb him so I kept my place and mindlessly watched TV until I saw Tate standing in the door wearing nothing but jeans.
“He couldn’t sleep,” I whispered and I watched Tate’s eyes, illuminated by the light from the TV screen, look to my belly and back to me.
“He’s out now, Ace,” he whispered back.
“I’m scared to move,” I told him.
Without hesitation, Tate walked into the room and he carefully slid his son off me and into bed. Jonas didn’t stir through this or while Tate pulled the covers over his shoulders and tucked them in.
Then he straightened and looked at me. “Bed, babe.”
“What if he wakes up again?”
“Bed.”
“Tate –”
“He knows where we are.”
“I don’t want him to be alone.”
“He isn’t.”
“Captain –”
“Bed.”
“But –”
“Lauren. Bed.”
I looked at Tate then I looked at Jonas then I leaned down and kissed his hair. I carefully exited the bed and walked to the door. Tate flicked off the TV, I saw dark then felt his arm slide along my shoulders. When we were in the hall my arm slid along his waist. Connected, we walked all the way back to our room. I pulled off Tate’s shirt and got into bed as Tate took off his jeans and, when he joined me, he pulled me right into him, my front to his.
“What woke you up?” he asked.
“I heard Frank’s voice,” I answered.
“Right,” he whispered.
“Then I heard Jonas’s TV.”
Tate didn’t reply.
I snuggled closer and Tate’s fingers sifted into my hair.
“Reckon it’ll be awhile before you’ll have sweet dreams,” he remarked.
“Probably,” I replied, hesitated and started, “Tate –”
He cut me off. “I’m okay.”
“You and…” I stopped. “There’s history.”
“Know that, babe.”
“Sorry,” I whispered his hand fisted and he rolled into me so I was on my back, his body was the length of mine and his face was in the side of my hair.
“History is just that, history. I can’t say this hasn’t rocked me but what I’m feelin’ is about Jonas,” he told me.
“Okay,” I was still whispering and I was also not believing him.
History was history but Neeta was Neeta. You didn’t spend your whole life knowing a girl, then the woman, sharing part of your life with her, making a child with her and feeling nothing but worry for your son after she was brutally murdered.
“Trust me, Ace.”
“Okay,” I repeated.
Tate was silent.