Well, that’s what he chose to tell himself, anyway.
Instead of telling her everything he wanted to say, he settled for asking a question. “Do you have slippers?”
She blinked. “Slippers?”
“I swept the kitchen, but you shouldn’t walk around barefoot yet. Just in case.”
“Oh.” The heel of her hand went to above her eye, as if trying to press a headache away. “Somewhere. Maybe? I don’t remember seeing any. There are still some boxes in the garage I haven’t unpacked yet.” She turned toward the kitchen, as if she planned to go there to get them now.
“No!” Before she could step onto the kitchen tile, he swept her off her feet. “I just told you not to walk around barefoot.”
Blankly, she uttered a quiet, “Oh, right.” Then she shut down.
“Okay, this is not happening.” He carried her back in the direction she came from. Once inside her bedroom, he set her on the bed, then ducked into her walk-in closet. A pair of flip-flops sat on a shelf with another pair of sandals. He grabbed them before turning around and heading back to her. Kneeling, he put one on her foot. When she didn’t move to help him or do anything herself, he looked at her with concern.
She sat there, eyes downcast at her hands in her lap, not even seeming to register that he was helping her.
“Elyxandre?”
She didn’t respond.
“Elyxandre.” This time it wasn’t a question. He put force behind the words. This quiet, lost version of his SRO was scaring him. When she still didn’t respond, he shifted closer to her and reached up to turn her face toward him. “Hey. What’s going on in there?”
All she did was stare at him. No expression. No emotion. Just empty eyes.
“You’re too exhausted for cleanup.” He removed the flip-flop that he’d just put on her foot, then stood. He pulled the covers back, then helped her slide under them. The fact that she didn’t try to argue with him meant he was right in his assessment.
As soon as the covers were tucked around her, she turned on her side, her back to him, and shivers began to course through her body. Within seconds, she was full-on shaking.
He didn’t say a word. “What can I do?” he asked.
“St-st-stay with me.”
She didn’t have to tell him twice. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and placed it on the nightstand. He unbuttoned his shirt, shed it, and threw it onto the chair in the corner. Next, he removed his boots and belt, then slid into the bed behind her.
Arms around her, big spoon to her little spoon, he pressed himself to her, willing his body heat and strength into her. He said nothing—just held her close, hoping it was enough to help her through whatever had finally triggered her into collapse.
Thankfully, the shaking stopped relatively quickly after that, but he wasn’t moving away until she told him to.
Her voice, when it finally emerged, was solid but quiet, as if she were afraid that speaking too loudly would ruin what littlecontrol she had left. “Have you ever felt like you had all your shit together only to find out that you didn’t? Not even close?”
He brushed his jaw against the back of her head. “Most days are like that, actually. I wake up most mornings feeling like I’m on top of it all. Then something happens, sometimes the most insignificant thing, and it feels like I’ve fallen to the depths of despair. Work. Parenting. Existing.”
Her fingers brushed back and forth across his forearms. “I don’t expect everyone to love me. I don’t even expect most people to like me. I’m happy with being tolerated. Just let me do my job and live my life. But this is starting to feel like someone hates me.”
“I don’t think it’s that anyone hates you.”
“Then why would they do any of this stuff? It feels pretty hateful.”
“I’m not going to lie. I definitely sense rage, but my experience has been that feelings this strong are usually directed at oneself. The person feels impotent to solve something that’s unsolvable, or helpless against things beyond their control. That’s what they’re really mad about.
“Fighting against the impossible is a losing battle, so they need someone to hold in front of them as a talisman of sorts. But instead of that representative holding good luck, they direct all their negative emotions, thoughts, and energy toward this person they hold responsible. That way, when they act out, they have a way to make an enemy for themselves to fight against.”
“I would help them if I knew who it was, what they were hurting over.”
He couldn’t help but smile as he kissed the spot his jaw had been rubbing against. “And that’s why I’m pretty sure their rage isn’t really directed at you. Whoever it is, they could do all of this to you, and you’d still want to help them.”
She shifted in his arms so that they lay face-to-face. “Will you stay with me tonight?”
