Hemingway knew that there were people on the island who would understand what he'd been through. Even at home, there had been a whole generation of men who completely understood. But they didn't talk about it. By the time any of them were ready to talk, the world wasn't interested anymore. So he'd put it into his novels instead. His pain had given his journalism a sense of compassion and understanding.
He nodded a little, then rolled his eyes dramatically at him being a superhero. "Maybe so, but did he ever win a Nobel prize?" he joked egotistically. She was going to live to regret ever telling him that one.
"Yeah," he said unconvincingly. Honestly, he felt like giving up on him. Any time he'd tried to explain his own feelings it had ended badly. He knew he shouldn't give up on his kid so easily, but maybe it was time to face the fact that it wasn't his Jack. "It's annoying to miss someone who is here," he added by way of an explanation of his reluctance.
"You're such a trooper," he teased, his hand giving her thigh a light squeeze as she moved to kiss him again. God, he could feel all of his stress and worry just melt away under her slow, passionate kiss. That was good. She tasted sweet and intoxicating.