“Largebed, too,” he observes. “Wide. Spacious. Think you needed that, too?”
“Christ.” I huff out a breath, leaning against the door and dragging a hand down my face. “This what you want to be talking about right now? The furniture?”
Cypress shrugs. “Seems relevant.”
“Does it?”
“I think so.”
“Course you do,” I say, caught between whether I want to laugh or shout at the ridiculousness of this conversation after everything this last week. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“You don’t think so?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because the number of fucking chairs isn’t important.”
“Isn’t it?” He smiles again.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out apart from, “I’ll goback outside. Let you—”
“Sounds great.” Cypress stands as if there were never a time when I had to help him up. “I’ll go with you.”
“No.” I’d take a step back if I wasn’t already against the door. “You should stay in here. Get some more rest.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re still recovering,” I remind him, unable to forget it myself no matter how perfect he looks now. Unable to forget watching him slip away no matter how much I want to reach for him. “And because you’re probably going to keep talking to me about chairs.”
“We can talk about something else.”
I need to get out of here.
“Simply name it.”
I can’t do this.
“Could be anything.”
Not now.
“Whatever is on your mind.”
I can’t.
“Because—”
“How about that you almostdied?” I snap, irritation and exhaustion andhopelessnessburning through whatever tether I had left.“How about that you didn’t wake up fordays? How about that I lost count of how many times I thought I lost you? That I can’t sleep without seeing you almost fall again? How about that the entire time we were on that train, I was asking God if my punishment for the people I killed would be watching you die? Or how about that I had already figured out the spot where I was going to have to fuckin’ bury you?” My chest is heaving when I finally stop, my eyes burning. “Fuck.How about that? Want to talk about any of that?”
Cypress frowns, folding his hands as if carefully considering. “Was it nice?”
I stare at him. “Waswhatnice?”
“The spot where you were going to bury me. Was it nice?”
Shouting. Shouting is definitely going to win out. “Yes, it was really fucking nice, Cy,” I tell him, flinging my arm out toward the open window. “Right next to the fucking river I was going to consider jumping in when I was through. That soundnice? Christ.”