Page 30 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 youokay?”

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

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 inParis.”

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

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

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 withyou.”

“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 amemory. 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 tohis.

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 moreawkward.

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 getsdark.

“I’ll walk with you,” Nicksays.

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 terrifiesme.

15

NICK

Ilive 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 commoncourtesy.

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 anduncertainty.

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 byside.

“I had another dream last night,” shesays.

“More torrid memories from ourhoneymoon?”

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

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

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

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 courseit’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 ofyours?”

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 akid.”

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

“Yeah,” she says slowly. “Youwere.”

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

“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 themout.”

“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 thesameyou, but I swear to God itwas.”

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

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