Yup. All good.
Rowan
See you tomorrow.
I plug my phone into the charger on my nightstand and pull the covers up to my chest. Everything the same as I’ve always done it. All interior lights off, save the one over the stove in the kitchen. Bedroom door open. Ceiling fan on low.
Wood creaks from somewhere in the house, the summer heat expanding the floorboards. Happens all the time, I remind myself. But tonight all I hear are heavy footsteps gaining on me.
It’s my imagination.
The steady hum of the fan doesn’t mask thecrackleof ice dropping in the fridge dispenser from the kitchen two rooms away. I hear the crash of the restaurant door colliding with the brick wall and my pulse riots.
Deep breaths. It’s ice.
Overgrown bushes outside my window scrape against the glass at the same time the remembered sensation of my bound wrists slamming against my car hits me.
I throw back the covers in a rush to get up.
Bedside lamp, on.
Rowan’s hoodie, on.
On determined feet, I move through the house, trying and failing to breathe through the tightness in my chest. I hit every light switch like a panicked game of Whack-A-Mole until there are none left.
Light does nothing for the silence, though.
The wood floors creak again.Cracklefrom the kitchen. Wind outside sends the bushes scratching along the porch railing. Every sound vibrates down to my bones.
I check the locks for the third time. Down a glass of water over the sink, promptly stuffing it in the dishwasher, making as much noise as I can to drown out the pulsing of blood in my ears.
Palms braced on the counter, I suck in a deep breath. “You’re. Fine,” I mutter.
Again with the ice. A shiver slithers up my spine. My hand slaps the countertop with athwack, and I storm into the living room. I power on the television. I repeat the mantra again,I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine,but I can barely see the screen through the moisture in my eyes.
Daniel does NOT deserve my tears. Stop it.
I click through the channels, my thumb hitting the remote like a game show trigger button, except I press it and nobody takes notice. So I press it again, harder this time. Then again and again.
You’re fine. Baseball game? No. You’re fine. News? Hell, no. You’re fine. Murder mystery? Definitely not. You’re fine.
At last, I stumble uponThe Officeplaying in syndication on a loop and crank the volume up a few notches.
Stomping back down the hall, I collect my phone and a blanket before returning to the living room. Legs crisscrossed beneath me, I bury my face in the sweatshirt and tuck the blanket around me.
I tap my phone screen.1:15 a.m.
The lamplight, the overhead lights, the television volume—I let them engulf me. Distract me. When my brain flashes something I don’t want to remember, I turn up the sound. When my skin crawls with haunting sensations of assaulting touches, I sink deeper into the cushions.
Nine episodes. I watch a full nine episodes until the warm glow of sunrise begins to streak through the drapes, bringing with it a comfort that finally allowsme to drift off.
I’m awakenedtwo hours later to the sound of a lawn mower outside. God bless the fourteen-year-old boy I pay to do this for me every weekend. But why so early, kid?
It doesn’t matter because I don’t have time to care. Brunch with Mom is in a couple hours and the only hope I have of looking like I didn’t just spend an entire night scared of the dark is a long, hot shower.
Punctuality has always been more my thing than Mom’s. So I shouldn’t be shocked by the suspicion in her eyes when I walk into Jelly and Jam fifteen minutes late. I absolutely will not be telling her I fell asleep in the shower.
Her forehead crinkles. “Late night with Mr. Army Man?”