Page 162 of Murder

I don’t get the chance. When he wakes up this time, he sits up for only a second before staggering toward the bathroom. I find him crouching in front of the toilet. He doesn’t seem sick—his arm is draped over the front of the seat, and his eyes are closed—so I wonder if he came here automatically, triggered by other nights when he was sick. I rub circles on his back and wrap an arm lightly around his waist when I notice his calves are trembling.

A few heartbeats later, he turns and curls against me. His head is down, so I can’t see his face, but I can feel him breathing—fast.

“It’s okay.” I cup his jaw and try to hold his body against mine. “We’re okay…”

I feel chills sweep his skin. He nods once, just a quick jerk of his head, like he’s trying to believe me. My heart aches as I whisper, “I love you. Can you come back to bed with me?”

He nods. Our eyes meet in a brief spark as we stand up together. His hand grips mine as we walk back to bed. He follows me closely, his face tired in the shadows. When our eyes catch this time, Bear gives me a tiny smile that makes my chest feel warm and tight.

When we’re tangled together on the bed, his body damp, his muscles tense, he tucks his chin against the top of my head—and I decide to gamble.

“Do you want to tell me…what it’s about?” I whisper haltingly.

I feel him take a deep, slow breath. He’s still so long after, I think he fell asleep, until he murmurs, “You.”

“The dream where you get sick…” My heart pounds hard. “It’s about me?”

His arms around me tighten. I can feel his sorrow, an invisible ribbon winding around both of us. Oh, Barrett…

I work to breathe around the lump in my throat, to make my voice normal when I ask, “What happens?”

His head shakes slowly. I feel like an ass for asking.

“It’s all right.” I pull the weighted blanket over us and smooth his damp curls off his forehead.

“We’re together, okay? That’s real life. It feels good to be in bed with you.”

“I know.” He shudders once more, just the barest little tic across his shoulders. I rub in between his shoulder blades, and pretty soon, he’s breathing evenly again.

The next morning, Barrett meets an inspector down at the studio. I spend my morning taking samples from the pond in the enclosure, then packaging them up and sending them off via UPS to a lab where they’ll be tested to ensure the water’s safe and healthy for the bears.

The nearest UPS place is downtown near Helga’s office, which is good because I have an appointment with her in two hours. I shower, and as I leave, I spot the paper bag from the Native American store on the counter. On the outside of it, Barrett had scrawled his friend’s address. I fold the bag closed, setting it on the passenger seat beside the little box of water samples. Before I open the garage, I peek inside, my intention to make sure it seems ready to mail. Barrett told me it was, but since he’s not around, I want to be sure.

When I look inside, I see a square of my thick, papyrus “GW” stationary and find myself reaching for it. I want to see Barrett’s handwriting again, but that’s not the only reason I unfold the note. I still want to know him more. Want to know what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling. Want to know his friends. I tell myself there’s nothing personal in such a short note, and open it before my conscience can kick in. I feel a pleasant jolt at the sight of his familiar handwriting.

THANKS FOR WATCHING MY BACK, BROTHER. -BEAR

I bring the note to my chest for a second, then slide it back in.

Half an hour later, I’m paying the woman at the UPS store, and she’s telling me about how her pet parrot has gotten into the habit of telling all her houseguests “Go clean those feathers, honey!” when I realize…I’m laughing. Really laughing, right here in the store. I’m laughing, and on my right side, someone tall is maybe laughing, too.

I turn my head as I get my receipt and change, and my gaze catches on a pair of pale blue eyes. Heat sweeps through me as I realize he’s familiar: his hair is red like mine; he’s tall and built, kind of like Barrett…

The guy from the moccasin shop.

I give him a small smile, more to push out of my comfort zone than anything else. He gives me a wink, and when I turn to go, I think I feel him right behind me. Then I push the door open and I see Barrett’s smiling face, and the guy is forgotten in the warmth of Bear’s arms as he pulls me to him and I melt against his body, my arms twined around my neck, until an older couple smiles at us from down the sidewalk, and we laugh and they laugh, like we’re a spectacle, and I think maybe we are.

“Let’s get lunch,” he says. We hold hands and walk to a little sandwich shop with old-fashioned, burnt-orange, plastic booths, Coke clocks with swinging hands all along one wall, and a green glass vase with a carnation poking out the top beside the napkin holder.

Barrett smiles with mustard on his lip and tells me about the inspection.

“The place is perfect.”

He’s glowing, which makes me smile, too.

His leg rubs mine under the table as he talks. We brush each other’s fingertips as we sip soda and Barrett eats his sandwich, then the rest of mine.

“How about your morning, Piglet?”

---