Page 7 of Wham Line (The Last Picks #10)

“Oh my God, Bobby,” I said as I scrambled out of bed. “I’m so sorry.”

He stood still as I hugged him.

“What happened?” I asked.

He touched my arm. After a moment, he said, “They think it was a heart attack. My dad found her.”

“Oh my God,” I said again. “Bobby.”

His hand was still on my arm. And now, carefully, he moved it, opening a path for him to slip free of my embrace.

He moved to the dresser and began pulling out clothes: underwear, joggers, a hoodie.

He dressed with his usual economy. He balanced on one foot as he pulled on his socks, and in my mind’s eye, I saw how only a few minutes before, he’d curled his toes into the carpet.

Tears welled up, and I blinked them away.

“What’s going on?” I said. “What’s happening?”

“I need to—to go.”

“Right. Yeah, of course. Okay, let me—do you want your duffel?”

But he was already passing through the Jack-and-Jill bathroom into the other bedroom where he kept most of his stuff.

I followed. From the doorway, I watched as he dumped clothes into the bag.

“What can I do?” I asked.

“I’ve got it.”

I stared at him. He switched drawers, gathered more clothes, and dropped them in the duffel.

“I’ll pack your toiletries,” I said.

“I’ll do it.” And then, as though talking to himself, he said, “I need to call Cari.”

Cari. Not Sheriff Acosta.

“Okay, I can do that for you.”

He shook his head. In some way, he must have decided the duffel bag was complete because he gave it a final, considering look and slid the bag toward the bathroom.

Then he turned toward his sneakers—not the ones he kept on display in the special boxes I’d given him, but the ones he actually wore.

These were neatly organized in cubbies (because of course they were), and he bent, hands on knees, and considered them.

He took out a pair of Jordans. He put them back.

He moved a pair of Adidas to a different shelf and made an annoyed sound, like they should have been there the whole time.

His hair was still damp from the shower, boyishly feathered across his forehead instead of his usual part, and he made that little sound again and pushed it out of his eyes.

Something broke open inside me, and I started to cry. Not a lot, but I had to wipe my eyes as I crossed to him.

“Bobby.”

He made a questioning sound in his throat.

I caught his wrist. “Bobby.”

It was like looking into someone else’s face, someone who was wearing a Bobby mask.

The same chiseled good looks. The same control and reserve.

But a stranger. I remembered the Bobby I’d met when I’d come to Hastings Rock, the one who had been sure if he was just strong enough, tried hard enough, he could fix anything.

“You need to sit down,” I said. “You’re not thinking clearly.”

He blinked. Once. And then, with an easy turn of his wrist, he broke my hold. He picked up a pair of New Balance, loosened the laces, and said, “I’m fine.”

“Bobby, you’re not fine.”

The sneakers hung from his hand—each one dangling from a finger. He took a deep breath, and for a moment, it sounded like one of those rare moments I’d heard Bobby lose his temper. A hint of it showed in his face, too. The tightness of his jaw.

Then something happened. His face changed, and it was the look of someone who had remembered something. Or understood something, maybe—a problem that he’d been banging his head against. He dropped the shoes, squared himself up with me, and put his hands on my arms.

“Thank you.”

I waited for more, but nothing came. Thank you for…what?

Instead, I heard myself talking again. “Can we sit down, please?”

He nodded, and his hands chafed my arms lightly. “Of course.” But then he added, “Only for a minute; I’ve got to drive to Portland.”

Which—of course he did. He had to be with his family.

So, why was my first instinct to argue?

We sat on his bed, the one only he ever used.

It was made perfectly, as you’d expect from Deputy Bobby, and a part of me fixated on how the bedding wrinkled under and around us as we sat.

He’d hate that. He’d never let his bed look like that.

Bobby took my hand. It took approximately a million seconds for the first minute to pass.

He shifted his weight slightly, and a spring pong ed under us.

I didn’t know what to say. Big surprise—that was par for the course in my relationships.

I mean, it wasn’t for lack of words. But was I supposed to ask how he was doing?

That sounded trite—if not downright stupid.

Was I supposed to ask how I could help? I was his boyfriend; shouldn’t I know how to help?

It was the kind of thing someone else would have been able to do instinctively, without all these layers of doubt and second-guessing and complete lack of faith in the ability to do something so fundamentally human as comfort someone they loved.

Bobby’s laugh was quiet, and he brought the hand he was holding to his lips and kissed my fingers. “You don’t have to do anything. You don’t have to say anything.”

“Bobby, I love you. Of course I have to do something. I just have to, you know, figure it out first.”

With his free hand, he tweaked the ear of my glasses.

He watched me for a moment. And then he said, “I’m so grateful for you.

I know you want to help me. There’s nothing you can do right now, but I promise I’ll tell you if there is.

And I’m sorry I wasn’t listening earlier, when you were trying to let me know how you felt.

” He waited a beat. “But I do really need to get on the road.”

When he stood, I released his hand automatically, and he went to put on the sneakers he’d dropped. I sat there. I smoothed the blanket where he’d sat—or I tried to, anyway. They were there now, the wrinkles, and all I could do was try to make them better.

Bobby grabbed his bag, and somehow, that unlocked me.

I slid off the bed. “Let me grab a few things, and I’ll be ready to go.”

“Dash, you don’t have to go with me.”

“I’m your boyfriend.”

“I know.”

“I should be there with you.”

“You’re busy. You’ve got a lot going on. Indira—”

“Of course I’m going with you. What did you think I was going to do?”

Bobby transferred the bag from one hand to the other. There it was again: that look like something had clicked. “Sure. Thank you. But only if you want to.”

It didn’t take me long; I couldn’t think clearly enough for any kind of list or plan. I had a backpack, and things went in the backpack, my heart beating faster and faster until finally, with no real sense of what I’d done, I yanked the zipper shut and blurted, “I’m ready.”

Bobby nodded. He insisted on carrying my backpack and his duffel down to the SUV.

I hopped into my shoes as I followed. Because I was afraid I’d chicken out—not because I was worried he’d leave me behind. He wouldn’t. Not now that he’d remembered.

See, the pieces had finally fallen into place. And I knew what was going on. The way he’d sat on the bed. Those agonizing, silent minutes. Everything he’d said, right up until the end.

That’s what Bobby had remembered or realized or whatever it had been, that look on his face. That he was supposed to take care of me.