“No.”
“I need some time to think—” Griff pushes to his feet, wincing, and I’m moving before I even realize. I have both hands out ready to help and he dodges me. “And you need sleep,” Griff says. “Do you think you can?”
“No.”
Griff swallows, swallows again. “You know I kind of admired the way you went dark. I could never do that.”
“Why?” I whisper. Griff’s only a foot away—maybe less. I could touch his hand. He could cup my cheek. Except these are things that belonged to other people, not to us, not anymore.
“Because I’m afraid of what I’d find in me. ’Night, Wick.”
32
First night home and I sleep with all the lights on. So much for progress, right? It’s so bright that, when I do wake, I almost think it’s morning. It’s not of course. The sky beyond my bedroom window is still dark. The streetlamps are still lit.
I scrub one hand across my eyes. How can I be this tired and still not be able to sleep? I got maybe four hours? Five?
I stretch my arms above my head until my shoulders pop. Coffee. I need coffee. I drag myself into clothes and pad into the hallway, listening. Everything seems quiet. Bren’s and Lily’s bedroom doors are shut, no lights underneath.
In Lil’s case, I’m not surprised. We must’ve talked for more than an hour last night. It was good. Better than before I left. I’m glad for that. Grateful.
Maybe even hopeful. If I have my sister again, I can do this, right?
I head down the stairs, my fingers finding the dent I left in the wall when Todd chased me all those months ago. You can barely see it anymore—Bren had the whole stairwell repainted a blinding white—but you can feel it. Seems like that’s true about everything these days; we keep painting over ourselves, but the damage is still underneath and you can feel it if you know where to touch.
I drop my hand, promise myself that if we get out of this, we’ll move and start fresh. Maybe it would help.
Or maybe the damage will just follow.
Downstairs, the security feed is still running and the yard is still empty. I sit in the dining room and take a couple minutes to check my bank and email accounts. I can’t risk using them again, but I run through everything just the same.
Because I’m looking for Milo?
Possibly, but it doesn’t matter. There’s no contact from him. Anywhere. Does that mean forever? Or just for now?
I want to punch him for what he did, but I also want to know he’s okay. He would have to be, right? That’s his mom. His mom.
It should be a comfort and it’s not.
I push to my feet, shuffle for the kitchen, where everything is shadowy and I have to grope to find the switch.
“Can you leave that off?”
I jump. Griff. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were—”
My eyes have adjusted now, coaxing out the lines of his profile . . . his shoulders . . . his chest. He’s shirtless, bent over the sink with one arm angled against his chest. It makes my mouth go dry and hot.
Griff shifts from foot to foot. “I couldn’t sleep any longer. The pain keeps me up.”
“I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head—jerks his head, really. Every line of him is angry. “It’s no big deal. I needed to change this anyway.” Griff lifts one hand, tugs at a twisted bandage. Even from here, I can see it’s not working. He turns away from me, yanks at it again. “Do you think . . . could you . . . ?”
Help him. He won’t say the words. Because he can’t? Or because it’s me—because it’s us?
I join him at the sink, untangle the gauze in silence. “You know, it would be a lot easier if I could see.” And I turn my face toward the pale light, smile so he knows I’m teasing.
He doesn’t smile back. “It’s better this way. It’s not really that hard to rebandage; I just can’t look at it.”
“I get that.”
Griff goes still and I pretend I don’t notice. I unwind the gauze and rewrap it over his blistered palms, careful to keep everything smooth. It still hurts him though. His exhale is harsh. It brings him closer. Or is that just me? Am I leaning into him? I can feel his heat. Everywhere.
“There,” I say, pushing away from him. “You’re done.”
Griff doesn’t respond. The tips of his bandaged fingers touch the thin skin of my wrist. He traces up, up, up until his thumb is in the crook of my elbow and my legs have gone loose.
I feel like I’m moving underwater when I lift my face to look at him. We are so close. Closer than even when I was doing his bandages. Closer than we have been in months.
My eyes drop to his lips and linger. I could kiss him. I want to kiss him. I force myself to meet Griff’s eyes. He hasn’t moved.
“Griff?” I whisper and I’m not even sure what I want to ask. Or maybe I am sure, because my fingertips find his skin. He’s warm, so very warm. How could I have forgotten that?