The curve of a road.
A hand held out, stretching, reaching for—what?
It’s the first clear memory she’s had since being home, and now—now she doesn’t know what the hell it means. Was it the plane crash? Frustration fills Sal. She doesn’t think so. Something inside tells her no.
“Hey,” comes Luke’s voice, low and quiet. Her memories cloud, evaporate. “I’m sorry.”
Shaking herself from her stupor, Sal turns her head to Luke. “For what?”
“I freaked out on that guy. When I saw him botherin’ you, I lost it.”
He’s watching her carefully, worried he scared her. While he surprised her, he never scared her. He’s her rock, someone she knows she can count on. With Luke, she’s the safest she’s ever been.
“I think he deserved it. Did he?”
Luke nods slow. “He’s been botherin’ you for some time now. I couldn’t let him keep doin’ it.” He shakes his head, angry at himself. “I’m sorry, though. I should’ve kept my cool.”
Sal thinks about all the questions she could ask. The reporter’s name, their history. Then she frowns, remembering the busted camera, the reporter’s promise to sue. Her stomach clenches at the thought. “He won’t give you trouble, will he?”
Luke grins. “Why? You gonna break his kneecaps?”
Sal gives a nonchalant shrug. “Maybe.”
Luke laughs and her heart does a flip. God, how she loves that laugh. Everything about it earnest and passionate and happy. Like fireworks lighting up the night.
Luke stretches a hand her way. Sal takes it, dipping her fingers into his palm to trace his tattoo.
“How was therapy?” he asks.
“Frustrating,” Sal says, and Luke’s brows go up at the admission. “Dr. Carter said I have to be patient and—”
Luke chuckles. “Yeah, I can see how’d that be frustrating for you.”
Sal smacks him lightly in the chest with the back of her hand. “As I was saying, I’ll either never remember or I’ll remember when my brain wants me to.” She frowns. “Either way, it’s nothing I can control.”
“Which pisses you off.”
Sal nods and breaks into a wry smile. “Which pisses me off.”
“It’s not a race, darlin’,” Luke says, decelerating off the highway and onto the byway that leads to Wild Antler Farm. “You’ll get there.”
“Right,” she murmurs.
Once again, Sal’s attention drifts. She fans a hand against the window. The glass cool and comforting. As she stares out at the scenery, her brain ping-pongs around inside her head, alighting on every little fact she’s learned since being home.
A pop-country song comes on the radio, breaking Sal’s concentration. Her ears prickle. A duet. A man and woman singing about heartbreak and alcohol.
Beside her, Luke swears low under his breath.
The words leave her lips before she can stop them, surprising her. Surprising Luke. “The plane crash ...”
Luke’s free hand, about to turn the station, stops midair. He gives her a sidelong glance. “What about it?”
“The trip to Pensacola ...” Sal sits up and looks at Luke, whose expression has flattened. “Why’d we go? Was it for a tour?”
“No. You had been sick.” His knuckles grip white on the wheel. Slowly, so slowly, like he’s carefully choosing his words, he says, “I thought it would be good for you, for us, to get away.”
Then, abruptly, Luke snaps off the radio, his face dark and stormy.