Chapter 6
He gazed at Jeremiah avoiding the question in a spoonful of stew; he thought, suddenly, that Jeremiah knew about grief, not in the same way but in a sideways elliptical fashion, a mother he’d never known rather than one he’d lost, and a father who’d prefer to spend time with waves and sky and isolation rather than looking at his son’s dark bright eyes.
He said, “I’m sorry about earlier. I don’t mean to snap at you.” His fingers touched Jer’s arm, under a rolled-up sleeve; Jeremiah’s skin was warm, the way the inn’s common room was warm, and Jer’s eyes came back to find his. “I’m prickly today. I don’t know why.”
“Anyone would be,” Jeremiah said, “under the circumstances.” Their fingers met, entwined; boots brushed under the table. Breathlessness hung on lips, in heartbeats: abruptly real and wanting. “Anyone with your life. If you—”