Mal nods. “He was so angry I wasn’t there. Then he wasn’t, because he said he understood, and somehow that was fucking worse.”
The washing machine beeps, an error code flashing on the screen.
Mal frowns. “What’s this prick shouting about?”
“Whatever it wants.” I push off the wall to help him out, and once again find myself so close to him I could lick his skin.
Mal seems to realise it too. He backs up, and parks himself on the chest freezer to watch me prod the washing machine until it stops beeping. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” I should leave now. Sound advice I choose to ignore. “Jack’s never mentioned whatever happened between you in Birmingham. If it’s any consolation, he probably doesn’t remember.”
Mal has his back to the bare brick wall Jack painted white last summer. He leans forward as I speak, elbows on his thighs, his torso curving at an angle that makes me think of terrible things. “What else has he forgotten?”
“Six months of his life before the hit, and most of the first year after it. You didn’t know that?”
“How would I?”
Honestly, I couldn’t say. Until Jack got hurt, he’d only mentioned his brother in passing, and that never really changed until Mal got hurt too.
I suppress a shiver, recalling the stormy evening soldiers came looking for Jack last month. Jack cried that night. So did Sol. I wonder what it would mean to Mal if he knew.
The washing machine grinds with the same abrasive sound it has done for months now.
Reminding me where I am.
Who I’m with.
Malglares at it. “That thing’s a fucking monster.”
Not really. Monsters don’t show you who they are with such little shame. And I’m willing to bet he knows that. “Jack has focal seizures,” I tell him. It’s not a secret—he’s had them behind the bar, though it’s been a while since that’s happened. “And his eye bothers him. Other than that, he’s pretty solid most of the time.”
Mal gives me his full attention, the glower he’d daggered the washing machine with replaced by the assessing stare I’ve already seen in him tonight. “How’s his short-term memory?”
“Better than Sol’s most of the time.”
“Really?”
“Worrying about forgetting things or fucking things up is a way bigger problem.”
Mal doesn’t need me to tell him that’s what he saw the first few days he was home.
So I don’t. I edge towards the door.
He catches me.
With hisfoot, hooking an ankle, and then his leg around me, reeling me in.
I could stop him.
Ishouldstop him.
But the workout I inflicted on myself in the cellar is starting to do its job, and fatigue has crept in while I’ve been focused on other things, dulling all my senses except the ones that roar to life as he tugs me between his legs.
My hips hit his thighs. “Not done, eh?”
Mal’s gaze darkens, if such a thing is possible. “Of course we’re not fucking done.”
“Yeah?” I place my hands either side of him and lean in. “What’s left?”