Oh no, oh no, oh no!
“That it?” I try to clear the panic from my voice. “I mean, was I yelling?” I’ve shot out of bed before at the sound of my own screams. Something must’ve brought him in here. I pray it wasn’t that.
He rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, you were.”
I drop my chin and groan. “How embarrassing.”
“Don’t be embarrassed.” His voice is soft, but I can’t bring myself to look up at him. “The brain-shake you got from taking that hit tonight is enough to fuck with your dreams. Probably having nightmares ’bout being chased by a chubby pink bear with a goatee.”
I giggle despite the heavy weight that settles in my chest. If he only knew my nightmares were about him, that my guilt plagues me even in my sleep.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been planning for this moment—to get close enough to Rex again so that I can unload my burdens. But now that I’m here, I don’t know if I can. My intention has always been revenge first, absolution second. Here I am, sitting a foot away, holding information that I thought would bring Rex the peace he deserves, but watching him over these last few months, it seems he’s doing much better than I am. This is a mistake.
“I feel better. I should probably go home now. I don’t think I’m a coma risk.” I shift to swing my legs off the bed when his hand lands firmly on my thigh. My gaze swings to his, and even in the dark, I can see the flash of panic in his expression.
“Don’t go.” His fingers flex slightly as if to confirm his words. “Just, um . . . you’re tired, it’s late, that fucker’s probably crashed at your place, and you don’t know what you’ll be walking in on.”
All my thoughts focus on his big hand resting on my thigh, and my words clog in my throat.
He tugs at his silver lip ring with his teeth, rolling it a few times before releasing it. “I know what it’s like to have bad dreams.” His whispered words carry the scent of liquor and mint.
I lean in a fraction of an inch and inhale.
“When they’re bad, you wake up; it’s no fun being alone.”
My head bobs in agreement.
“Stay.”
I study the angular lines of his jaw, his full lips, and the brightly colored dragon tattoo that skates up the side of his neck: claws, teeth, spikes, and a fierce looking snarl on its face. “What do you dream about?”
He moves his hand and I instantly regret asking. It just slipped out, but the last thing I want to do now that I have him here, talking to me, touching me, is push him too hard and lose him again.
A quick snapping sound draws my attention to the elastic band around his wrist. “Dreams are nothin’ but crap. Leftover shit from the day that festers in our heads.” The snapping gets louder. “Doesn’t mean anything.”
“I agree.” I don’t, but the tension radiating off his body forces me to lie. It seems to work and the snapping stops.
“What do you dream about?” His voice is soft, desperate.
“Memories from the past. Things I wish I could forget but can’t.” You. Always you.
“Forget.” A humorless laugh, dry with sarcasm, tumbles from his lips. “You think your nightmares would end if you couldn’t remember the bad?”
“I don’t know. I hope they would.”
He exhales hard and his shoulders drop. “They don’t.”
God, what is he saying? He doesn’t remember the bad, but he dreams it? I’m pushing it, I know I am, but he’s opening up, and I can’t pass up the opportunity to find out if he’s okay, if he’s really okay. “You dream the bad, but you can’t remember it?”
“Something like that.”
That’s not possible. “Then how do you know it’s real?”
He drops his head into his hands, gripping fistfuls of his hair. “I don’t.”
And suddenly he’s that boy, the one I met night after night and clasped his hand beneath a door, offering every comfort my eight-year-old self could offer. Singing, fighting tears in order to be strong. For him. All for him.
I scoot forward and place my hand on his back. He goes ramrod straight, eyes forward. My hand freezes as fear pulls me in two directions: afraid to leave it there, but equally nervous to pull it away. Seconds tick by and tension fills the room.
He’s not that boy anymore. He’s hardened by his circumstances, forced to live through a nightmare that still haunts his sleep, unable to escape the devastation of what was left behind. A man broken.
“I’m sorry.” Reluctantly, I drop my hand. “I shouldn’t have—”
“Do you like tequila, Mac?” He’s still looking ahead at nothing.
I shake my head. “Sure.”
“I’ll be right back.” And he’s up. He walks out of the room, and I lean to watch him walk through the small living room and out the front door.
His absence clears the muddy thoughts of the past and brings me to the present.