On the Way Down

Chapter Twenty-One

He's motionless, nearly suspended in time while I watch him, and he seems to forget to blink as his eyes remain focused on the TV screen. The news anchor moves on to a story about wildfires in northern California, but Phoenix doesn't appear to notice. He finally does blink, but other than that, he still doesn't move. After what must be a full minute of him standing in the center of the kitchen, holding a forgotten plate in his hands, I put my mug on the table, get up from my chair, and approach him.

"Hey. Are you okay?"

The gentle touch of my hand on his shoulder brings him back to our current surroundings. He looks at me, and recognition and awareness return to his eyes. His chest rises and falls when he takes a breath and lets it out.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to let the food get cold." He continues on his path to the table and sets the plate down. I follow him there and am about to sit again, but he places a hand on my shoulder this time. "I'm fine. I just didn't expect that."

He holds my gaze for a few beats, almost like he's trying to convince me, or maybe he's trying to convince himself. What I see in the depths of his eyes sends a twinge right through me, like some sort of sympathy pain. Then his hand falls away, and he returns to the counter to grab the other plate, along with forks and knives. I sink into the seat and try not to make it obvious that I'm observing him in my peripheral vision.

He seems present in the moment and collected now, despite what I just witnessed, and even though there has been a detectable shift in his mood since a few minutes ago. But when he joins me at the table and passes me the cutlery, there's the slightest tremble in his fingers. It reminds me of when I asked him if he thought Len was alive during our coastline cruise on my birthday. No, he isn't fine. Not totally.

I get it, because the news has to be jarring. He must be wondering what the break in the case is, if it means Len has been located, and if she's dead or alive. If it was someone I'd been close with, I would be out of my mind. I set the fork and knife beside my plate, then reach over and cover his hand with mine. He looks into my eyes again. What I glimpse in his now isn't what I saw before, but it tells me he received the unspoken message that I'm here for him if he wants to talk.

He turns his hand so we're palm to palm and runs his thumb along mine. His touch is steady, reassuring me that the emotions that momentarily had him in their grip have passed. When he draws his arm back and reaches for his fork, I mirror him and do the same, and spear a piece of egg from my plate. After a minute, he speaks again.

"Have you heard from Ava since last night?"

It takes me a second to follow the change in subject. When I register that we're talking about Ava, and presumably about her well being, something in me softens even more. Here we are, confronted with the announcement about a break in Len's case. It's clearly brought up raw feelings and unanswered questions, and yet he still wants to check on Ava, even though he's aware it wasn't that long ago when she would have volunteered to pour concrete into his shoes if someone had wanted to throw him off a bridge, and she still isn't exactly sunshine and warmth in his presence.

"You really are concerned about her, aren't you?" It's again reminiscent of how protective Torin is with me. There's something oddly sweet and endearing about this, and it's why I hold back on repeating what I said last night about Ava knowing what she's getting into if something happens between her and Nash.

"I am. It might end up being my fatal flaw."

I can't help but laugh. "You and me both," I assure him. "Yes, though. We texted earlier. She stayed at Torin's house last night. She said she passed out in his guest bedroom, even though she didn't think she had that much to drink."