“That was years ago,” Duke said, shaking his head. “Both of us are different people now. And she’s never seemed to want to talk to me openly about any of it. Not the bunker, not her therapy, not even her damn trouble. And of course when we finally do I fuck it up, I’m fucked up.”

He wanted to pace again, but worried if he did he’d start yelling. So he curled in on himself instead.

“So I flinch. And she freezes. And we never talk about it again. How am I supposed to know that’s not forever if she doesn’t tell me?”

Ah. There was the real frustration. This was , if not the heart, a major artery of the problem.