“Then he can wait. I’ll be there in a few hours.” He hung up without another word and turned around. There was his new partner, the roiled-up little ball, looking for all the world like she expected him to throw her out on the streets of Yorba Linda without even letting her get dressed.

He’d fallen asleep with her in his arms, seemingly relaxed and content and safe and trusting with her new fuckbuddy. He had naively assumed that mood would transfer over into the morning light, but nope, the roiled-up little ball was back, naked under the sheet, wrapped around her pillow like a koala clinging to a tree.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“I’m sure I’ve felt worse. I can’t remember when, but I’m sure I’ve felt worse.”

!!!!!

Then he remembered she likely wasn’t referring to getting raw-dogged by an aging gen Xer for several hours but the fact that she had sliced herself open with a bottle of Mexican Coke, had that injury forcefully repaired by an alien cyborg, and nearly gotten herself involuntarily committed into one of California’s fine, fine institutions for drug addicts and suicide attempts.

She glanced at him, saw his expression. “I didn’t mean . . . Not you. You’re . . . You, um . . .”

“I’m what?” He’d said it playfully, an invitation to tell him, Yes, I’m feeling kind of bowlegged, but I had fun. Didn’t we have fun? Ho ho, what fun we had.

But she looked at him like she was a serf who’d offended her liege lord. “I’m sorry. You’ve been kind to me. I’m sorry.”

He frowned, now really coming to grasp how poorly he’d thought this through. What now? He never had any trouble getting laid, but he hadn’t had any serious emotional attachments since before he went to rehab. Hell, recovery itself had precluded it. Don’t start new relationships during the first year, and preferably the second. Thinking he was too good for that rule had led to one minor relapse around month three of recovery, so he’d behaved and played by the rules after that. But he’d been sober for two years, so he was well out of the no-no zone now. But this didn’t feel like the beginning of a relationship, it felt like . . .

A mistake?

Yeah, probably.

Regardless, he knew the deal here. This was a sensitive case, and he had told himself that his intent was to do no harm, and fucking her without at least a “Sooo . . . see you later?” would send a message he did not want to send.