And against my better judgement, I hope to God I’ll get to do it again.
Chapter nine
Cora
Thebarstooliscoolagainst my bare legs as soft moonlight streams in through Theo’s kitchen window. The soft crackling from the gas stove is the only sound in the room as it slowly heats the pot of water I’d put on a few minutes ago. It’s just past two in the morning.
I mindlessly scroll through Instagram, hoping to rid my body of the restlessness, my mind of the images of my nightmare. It’s not a new one, but it’s upsetting nonetheless.
It’s always the same dream. Mom lying in her hospice bed. I know she’s already gone, but for some reason, my dream-self thinks she can save her. That there’s something she can do, only her limbs move too slowly, and she can’t get enough breath in her lungs. No one will listen to her, and Mom is slipping further and further away. And with her,everythingslips away. The room, the building, the world. And there I am. Alone.
And then I wake up with a dread so thick I think it might drown me.
Instagram doesn’t seem to be helping. It’s only cramming my overstimulated mind with more gunk. With a sigh, I lock my screen and set the phone aside.
Movement catches my eye, and I turn, seeing a flash of something out the kitchen window. At first, I startle but then settle as I recognize the form of a deer outside. No, three of them. They stand in Theo’s backyard, munching on grass, their white tails wagging every so often. I lean forward, my chin resting in my palms as I simply watch them.
The deer never came this close to the cabins on Thatcher Ranch. Too many buildings and people. But Theo’s place is near woods, the houses out here separated by acres, if not miles. We’re in their home, not the other way around.
One of the deer pops its head up, and our eyes meet. I can’t quite tell if it sees me through the glass—if there’s even enough light for it to make me out—but it feels like it can. Its eyes stare, blink, and then it returns to munching on the grass.
“You’re up late,” Theo’s soft voice momentarily startles me. “Sorry,” he says quickly. “Should have made more noise coming down the stairs.”
I laugh, relaxing. He enters the kitchen. It’s dark, but I can still make out his sweatpants and the color of his t-shirt—green. It’s tight in a way that highlights his muscles, but I try not to think about that.
I become very aware of the fact that I’m in nothing but an oversized t-shirt and underwear—what I normally sleep in. But the shirt is long, and I’m sitting, and it’s dark in here, so I try to brush aside any fears about impropriety.
Besides, I think after our years of friendship, our fake marriage, and this ruse we’re pulling off—we’re past that.
“Did I wake you up?” I ask with a grimace. I’d tried to be quiet when exiting my room and heading down here.
He shrugs a shoulder. “I’m a light sleeper. Wanted to make sure you’re okay …” His eyes are dark as his gaze finds mine. “Are you?” He stands across from me, past the island I’m sitting at, leaning against the far counter.
I nod out of instinct. “Just having trouble sleeping.”
He nods.
“It’s not unusual for me,” I add. “I’ll try to be quieter next time.”
Theo waves off my comment. “I’ll get used to it.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“Anything specific keeping you up?”
I bite my lip. Of course Theo knows about my mom’s death, the fact that she was my only family. But I’ve never told him about the nightmares. I’ve never told anyone about the nightmares. Just Mom—when I talk to her sometimes late at night, as if she has the power to rid me of them. “I have recurring dreams about my mom,” I admit, my gaze returning to the deer outside the window. They’ve moved farther away, closer to the trees. “They’re … hard.”
I see Theo nodding out of the corner of my eye, and then suddenly the kettle whistles. Theo’s closest to the stove, so he flips the gas off. “You making tea?” he assumes.
I nod, moving to stand, but Theo shakes his head at me. “I’ll get it for you,” he says. He spins around, grabbing a mug from the drying rack and then opening one of the cupboards. “I’ve got chamomile, peppermint …”
“I’ll take chamomile,” I say.
He pulls out a tea bag, plopping it into the mug and then pouring the hot water in. He places it in front of me on the island counter, and I offer him a soft smile in thanks. It’s such a small gesture, but oddly it’s enough to start scaring away the images of my nightmare.
“How often do you have the dreams?” he asks.
I stare down at the steam rising from my mug, waiting for it to cool. “A couple times a month. Sometimes more,” I say.
