He glanced at his surroundings, as if seeing the room for the first time. “I’m sorry I woke you. I have nightmares sometimes.”
“It must have been a bad one.”
“Yeah, but it’s done now. You should get some sleep.” He started to stand.
She grabbed his arm. “Wait. Please. I wish you’d talk to me.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. I walked in my sleep. No big deal.”
“There’s a piece of paper in your hand. May I see it?”
“Paper?” Frowning, he opened his fist.
She pried it from his fingers. It was ripped in two but she was still able to put the pieces together and read it. “This is an invitation. The police department wants to recognize you at a reception.”
“Oh, that. I must have grabbed it when I walked. I forgot about it.”
“How could you forget? It’s a huge honor.”
“It’s a crock of shit.”
“Michael, I understand you’re modest, but maybe you should consider attending this. How many people can say they’ve won an award for bravery?” She touched his cheek, but he angled his face. It wasn’t an obvious retreat, just enough to make her heartbeat limp.
“I don’t need an award and I don’t need to do a commemorative episode ofHandymen. I remember what happened. No one needs to remind me.” He reached for the torn invitation, crumpled it into a tight ball, and let it drop to the floor. “In a few days, it will be the one year anniversary. Jane Ashton was murdered almost three hundred and sixty-five days ago. She’s in the ground. She can’t attend any receptions. She won’t be getting any medals or handshakes from the Chief of Police. It doesn’t seem right.”
“I’m sure Jane would want you to get recognition.”
“But that’s the thing, Em. Jane doesn’t have a say in the matter, and for some reason, I just don’t feel like hobnobbing with a bunch of stuck-up bureaucrats because they have to fulfill their quota of gold stars.”
He stood and began to pace, beautiful but vulnerable in his nudity, his hands clenched at the back of his neck.
“I want to understand, Michael. I do.”
He looked at her through mournful eyes, half-hidden in shadow. “Why am I still having nightmares? Why can’t I forget?”
Emily hurried to her feet and put her hands on his shoulders. “It’s because you haven’t allowed yourself to face it. From what I’ve seen, you keep pushing it aside.”
“Because it’s always in my face. No one will let me forget.”
“Maybe you’re not supposed to forget.”
“Em, I can’t go back there.” His face twisted with red agony, his voice cracking. “Why won’t everyone just let it die?”
“Maybe it’s because those children didn’t die. And neither did you.”
“Sometimes I think a part of me has.”
“Don’t say that. You’re here. Thank God you’re here.” She gathered him into her arms and pulled his head down to her shoulder. She stroked her fingers through his curls. “I won’t let them push you into doing anything you don’t want to do.”
He’d taken great pains to make her feel safe. She could do the same for him.
“You’re on my side?”
“I swear it. You can trust me.”
His voice came out as an awed whisper. “Thank you.”
“Just promise me one thing. When you’re ready to talk, talk to me. Okay?”
