“Yes,” I said, reaching to brush a rogue strand of hair away from the plump vein at the center of his forehead. It protruded when he was angry or sad. Moved by the raw brutality of pain and love in his watery, green gaze, I gave him honesty. A different type. Revealing how flawed, how imperfect I was. It came from the dark place I’d only ever allowed him to see and touch. I said the thing others would warn me to think but not say. “I miss her, but sometimes, I miss us more.” “Me too.” His words were slurred and whispered like the walls had ears. “Does that make us vile people?” he asked.
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