Page 85 of Property of Bob

I lifted my eyes to his face. Ash was still sleeping.

I’d never seen him asleep before. At least, I didn’t think I had. Twenty years was a long time, and there were plenty of things about those years after high school that had gotten fuzzy around the edges. But I was pretty sure sleeping Ashland Moore hadn’t been something I’d ever witnessed.

He looked different.

Not younger, exactly. There was no mistaking the man lying beside me for the eighteen-year-old I remembered. His beard was thicker than anything he’d been able to grow back then, and there were lines around his eyes that hadn’t existed twenty years ago. The scar across his throat was impossible to miss even in the dim light.

But he looked peaceful.

Yesterday, even when he’d been smiling or giving me shit, there had been pain around his eyes. Exhaustion. Every movement had looked like it took more out of him than he wanted anyone to know.

That scared me more than I wanted to admit.

I’d spent three days driving to Skull Island because I needed Ashland. Then I’d gotten here and found out someone had almost killed him.

My eyes moved to the scar again.

I’d told him last night that I was glad he wasn’t dead. That might have been the biggest understatement I’d made in my entire life.

I didn’t know what I would have done if I’d arrived here and found out I was too late. It had been twenty years since I’d seen him, and I hadn’t exactly spent those years pining away for Ashland Moore. I’d lived my life. I’d gone places. Worked jobs. Met people. I’d built something that worked for me, even if most people would probably look at my RV and my constantly changing address and wonder what the hell I was doing.

But through all of it, Ashland had existed somewhere in the back of my mind. The guy who’d stepped between me and my father when he hadn’t needed to. The guy who’d changed everything without ever knowing he’d done it. And when things at the campground had started getting weird enough that I’d finally admitted I might actually need someone, Ashland was the person I’d thought of.

Except Ashland wasn’t really Ashland anymore.

He was Bob.

I looked at him again. I still didn’t understand that name.

My fingers moved slightly against his arm before I caught myself.

Okay. Enough staring at the sleeping man.

I carefully lifted my hand and eased my leg away from his. Ash made a low sound in his sleep, and I froze.

He didn’t wake up.

I waited another second before slowly sliding toward the edge of the bed. My feet hit the floor, and I stood. Ash still didn’t move.

Good. He needed the sleep.

I grabbed my clothes and slipped into the bathroom, quietly shutting the door behind me.

Twenty minutes later, I’d brushed my teeth, washed my face, changed clothes, and spent entirely too long staring at myself in the mirror while wondering when exactly my life had gotten this weird.

I had no answer.

I opened the bathroom door and stepped back into the bedroom.

Ash was awake. He was sitting up with his back against the headboard, the blankets pooled around his waist. His hair was messed up from sleeping, and one hand rested loosely on his stomach.

I stopped. He looked better.

Not magically healed. The scar was still there. His voice probably wasn’t going to suddenly sound normal, and I doubted his legs had miraculously decided to start cooperating overnight.

But there was color in his face. Yesterday, he’d been pale enough that every time I’d looked at him, I’d wanted to shove him back into the hospital myself.

This morning, he actually looked alive.