She blinked rapidly and stepped back. “Yeah, okay.” She kept her voice steady, turning to get her clothes so he wouldn’t see the tears in her eyes before she could fight them back.

He caught her from behind and hugged her again, warmth bleeding through his clothes. “Not like that, Andie-girl. I’m nasty company right now—that’s all. Why don’t you come down for breakfast? We’ll talk, and I’ll load you up on French toast and grits.”

She touched his arms where they were wrapped over her chest. “Okay.”

“Okay.” He let her go, but there was no creak of footsteps announcing his exit.

She didn’t turn around. She didn’t have anything left, not tonight.

Finally, the floorboards creaked. Hesitant and slow. Out of her room and through the living room. The front door opened and paused again. When it closed behind him, she thought she’d be relieved.

She wasn’t.

Twenty

LJ cracked an egg into the bowl with one hand, whisking with the other until the eggs frothed. He dropped the shell into the trash and poured just a hint of cream in with the eggs, then a droplet of vanilla extract and a scattering of cinnamon. After a pause, he added more vanilla, because he was pretty sure Andra would like it that way.

His eyes were grainy with fatigue, and he hoped Andra had slept better than he had. He wished there were a way he could have stayed last night, just to be certain she was okay. But that was the whole problem: if he was there, she was worse, not better. She probably never had panic attacks when she was alone. He stared down into the eggs, his jaw aching before he realized he was grinding his teeth.

He straightened and reached for the bread. Food. It was the one pure way he could care for her. The one thing he was sure not to fuck up.

The clock on the microwave informed him it was still too early to expect her. Way too early to worry she wouldn’t come. He took out a box of cornflakes, then a bag of oatmeal, and hesitated. Mama traded off which one she used to coat her French toast, but right now he couldn’t think of which Andra might like best. Hearty and savory or light and crisp.

He checked the clock again, but it was still too early. Not so early in New Orleans, though, and talking to his mother might keep him from going flat crazy while he waited to see how Andra was this morning. If she was nervous about seeing him, too. Or if she was maybe angry with him, even though she’d said she wasn’t last night. She’d chased after him when he’d first started to leave. That had to be a good sign. Or at least not a bad sign.