He's smiling.
"But he also knew she'd come around and realize what they had or could have, so he wasn't about to give up on her. One day, he traveled thousands of miles to visit her, to see if maybe, just maybe she …" feels the same way he does. I stop, the story becoming too personal.
He sits up, still holding my hand. "Finish it."
"… wanted to have coffee."
He eyes me.
"Oh, you wanted a different ending?" I ask sweetly. "Maybe they can have tea."
"All right. I'll play." He pauses to think before speaking. "While fictional Sawyer was playing games with Katya, she was thinking about the gift she sent him, whether or not he received it. She'd sent it after months of silence, because she wanted him to know he wasn't alone, to remind him that there are people who care about him, even if he was determined to spend the holidays in Iraq. Because secretly, Katya kinda likes him, enough to hope she saw him again and that the next time they met, maybe, just maybe they could escape somewhere where it was just them and…" He pauses dramatically.
I'm on pins and needles. "What?"
"… have coffee, of course."
"You're such an asshole!"
"You started it," he points out. "If you want to fill in those blanks between fictional Katya and fictional Sawyer at any point …"
I ignore him, almost enjoying our cat and mouse game. Before the awkward silence can descend, I speak up. "You got the duck."
"I did. Thank you." He's smiling again, his dimples showing.
"If I hadn't sent it, would you have come home … er, I mean here?" I ask.
"I don't know. Probably not. When I saw it, I knew you didn't hate me too much. I figured I'd come back and just see if you wanted …"
I glare at him. "If you say coffee, I'm leaving!"
"Nah. We both know you won't."
"How did you know I sent it anyway?" I ask, irritated.
"Because the only other person who knows about it is dead."
"Oh, god." I stare at him. "I'm so sorry."
"It's been years," he says easily.
We evaluate each other once more.
"I'm sorry, Sawyer." This time, I'm holding his gaze when I say it. My voice trembles. "I'm sorry that I blamed -"
"Stop," he replies.
I do, not at all certain how he can be so forgiving or how much longer I can sit here, gazing at him, without going insane at not being able to break the fragile plane between us. Or even if I should.
"Just … out of curiosity … if fictional Katya asked fictional Sawyer to stay with her tonight, what would fictional Sawyer say?" I ask.