She gradually calmed, removing her hand from her mouth and sinking back down into the pillow. Her wet eyes flashed in the light edging in from the hallway.

“Okay, Kitty. It’s okay.”

He remained by her side, kneeling, both hands over his heart, until she drifted into sleep again—still, quiet, and soon deep.

Luke didn’t sleep. Or not for long, at least. There were a few smoke-like threads, but the clock on his phone never made any big jumps.

He got up a little before six, brewed a pot of coffee, then poured himself a mug and sat out on the back stoop. Birds occupied the eucalyptus tree in his yard, singing with exuberant break-of-day voices. Luke listened, yawning, his own morning sounds—slurps, grunts, and farts—notably less appealing.

In the glory days, he’d go for a swim first thing in the morning. The best way to wake up. He’d climb bare-ass out of bed, stumble groggily outside, and flop into the pool. So much of the grime that had clung to him the day before would be washed away—the bad press, the smell of alcohol, the arguments with Lisa—and he’d emerge baptized, ready to get dirty again.

“Good times,” he said.

“I beg to differ.”

He jumped off the stoop and whirled around, coffee slopping over the lip of his mug. Kitty stood in the open doorway, regarding him through her huge brown eyes. She tried to smile but it wasn’t quite there.

“Hey, Kitty,” Luke said, snapping back to the here and now. “How are you feeling?”

“Not good,” she replied. “But coffee might straighten me out some.”

“Sure, yeah. Absolutely.” Luke nodded, content to have somewhere to apply his mind, if only for the next few moments. He stepped back into the kitchen and Kitty followed. “Cream? Sugar?”

“Please. A little of each.” She sat at the breakfast bar and looked around. Her eyes brightened. “You cleaned.”

“I know, right? I don’t know what came over me.” He made her coffee, giving her one of the better mugs. “It’s hot. Be careful.”

“Thank you.”

“You hungry?”

“Yes and no.” She sipped her coffee, and the look of simple gratitude on her face was heartbreaking. “I am, but I don’t know if I can eat.”

“Let’s find out,” Luke said, stepping toward the fridge. He opened the door and looked inside. “I don’t have much. Few eggs. One lonely sausage. I think there are a couple of bagels in the freezer.”

“Sure.”

He set about fixing Kitty breakfast—again, content to do anything that didn’t involve hovering awkwardly around her, afraid of saying the wrong thing. In his experience, trying to comfort an emotional woman was like trying to defuse a bomb. There were several wires to choose from, but only one that wouldn’t go boom.

“I got pickles,” he said. “You want a pickle with it?”

“Ugh. No.”