The air conditioner hummed against the trailer’s close heat. The only light was the harsh, unforgiving glow from the vanity bulbs, catching the dust motes floating in the stagnant air and the sheen of sweat drying on his skin. They lay tangled in the narrow bed, the world held at bay by thin aluminum walls and the quiet hour before the unit call.
Sleep was impossible. The space between them, though their bodies were touching from shoulder to ankle, was thick with everything unspoken. Her honey-blonde hair fanned across his arm. He stared at the ceiling, one hand resting on his sternum, the other trapped beneath her.
He shifted. His hand found hers where it lay on his stomach, her fingers slack. He brought her hand to his mouth, pressed his lips to her knuckles—not a kiss of passion, but of something quieter. Then he guided her hand lower, over the plane of his abdomen, past his hip, down his thigh.
He stopped her fingers on his left kneecap. On the skin, a raised, pale line, about two inches long, old and smooth against her touch.
His voice, when it came, was rough with disuse. It wasn’t the actor’s studied baritone. It was lower, younger. A voice from before. “I was twelve.”
Elise didn’t move. Her fingers stayed where he’d placed them, tracing the scar’s length.
“My father bought me a red bicycle for my birthday. A real one, not a kid’s bike.” He swallowed. “There was a hill at the end of our street. Steep. Pavement cracked at the bottom. The other kids dared me.”
He was quiet for a long moment. The AC cycled off, leaving a sudden, pressing silence.
“I made it halfway down before I knew I’d lost control. The handlebars were shaking. I tried to brake. The pads were worn. Nothing.” He took a slow breath. “I hit the crack at the bottom. Went over. The bike landed on top of me. The pedal crank… it went right into the knee.”
Elise’s thumb moved, a slow circle over the old wound.
“I didn’t scream. I remember that. I just laid there, looking at the sky, with this metal sticking out of my leg. My friends ran over. They were yelling. One of them threw up.” His chest rose and fell under her cheek. “I told them to get my dad. And I just… waited. I counted the clouds. I didn’t make a sound.”
“Why?” Her own voice was a whisper, barely there.
“I thought if I cried, he wouldn’t let me keep the bike.” Julian’s jaw worked. “Twenty-three stitches. He carried me to the car. I bit my tongue bloody staying quiet. And when we got home from the hospital, he wheeled the bike into the garage. Told me I could try again when the stitches came out.”
He turned his head on the pillow to look at her. The vanity light cut across his face, deepening the faint laugh lines, turning his storm-grey eyes silver. “That was the lesson. Pain was private. You took it quietly, or you lost what you wanted.”
Elise lifted her head. Her blue eyes were clear, searching his. She didn’t offer pity. She just listened, her fingers still on his knee.
“I spent twenty-six years taking things quietly, Ellie. The bad reviews. The betrayals. The fear.” His gaze held hers, stripped bare. “Walking away from you. I did that quietly, too.”
She pushed herself up on one elbow, looking down at him. The sheet pooled at her waist. “You’re not quiet now.”
“No.” He brought his hand up, cupped the back of her head, his fingers threading into her long, wavy hair. “I’m not.”
She lowered her mouth to his. The kiss was slow, deep, a seal over the wound he’d just opened. A taste of salt and shared breath. When she pulled back, her lips were parted, her gaze unwavering. “Don’t be.”