All I want to do is to hold her, comfort her and make this better but as I reach for her again, she begins to gasp for each and every breath. I leap from the bed and run down the hallway to find a paper bag of some sort knowing that not only is Olivia hyperventilating she is having a full-on panic attack.
Bethy used to have them. They started when the police turned up at her house to tell her that her husband was dead. With a shudder, I put the memory of my heartbroken sister falling apart in my arms as she was told she’d been widowed within a year of getting married while their daughter of just four weeks lay asleep upstairs to the back of my mind.
The scene before me as I re-enter the bedroom is of my girl fighting for every breath, huddled up against the headboard, her legs drawn to her chest with her arms wrapped around them, hugging herself as if she is trying and failing to find comfort and security, a safe place. She might be failing in her attempts, but I won’t. I fucked up by not telling her about her hateful stepfather, but I won’t fail again. I will comfort her and keep her safe, starting right now.
Kneeling at her side I place an arm around her shoulders, carefully, as I put the paper bag to her mouth and talk to her, gentle, soothing words that don’t really make much sense, but it seems to be working because after ten minutes her breathing is returning to normal and her body is softening, relaxing a little.
I hate that these bastards still do this to her and I am beginning to hope that the death penalty might be reintroduced and applied to their heinous crimes, especially Raymond Daniels because without him none of those things would have happened to her. I realise that if they hadn’t, we might never have met. Like she told me, maybe she needed to be broken so I could put her back together, but honestly, I would give that up for those things to have never happened and for her to always sleep soundly.
Olivia’s hand suddenly covers mine and she is pulling the bag away from her mouth and moving away a little.
“You okay?” I ask, unsure what else to say.
“Sorry—”
“You have nothing to be sorry for baby, really you don’t.” I get up and sit next to her. “Do you want a drink?” I ask and she nods but is already moving farther away and getting off the bed.
Turning to face me from the doorway she says, “Thank you. I just need to get a drink and have some time, alone.”
I really do want to protest, to object to her going anywhere on her own, even if it is only as far as the kitchen but she looks scared, tired and confused, but worse than that she has a lost expression on her face along with a distant glazed glint in her eyes that is the real sucker punch because I am unsure whether that is because of her dream or me.
“I love you, I really do, even when I make bad choices,” I tell her sincerely and refuse to acknowledge my mocking inner voice because right now I don’t care if I sound pathetic. I need her to know that I love her and that I am truly sorry for any part I have played in this.
“I know.” She smiles weakly. “I love you too. I just wish everything was easier, Mase,” she adds but her smile is almost non-existent now making me physically wince with the pain her words and diminishing smile cause. “You should go to sleep; you have to work tomorrow. I’m going to make some tea.”
“I’ll do it,” I almost plead, scared witless that she is going to run away but she shakes her head.
“Please, babe, you’re making this harder than it needs to be. I am making some tea, clearing my head. Maybe I’ll put some stuff together for your mum’s sunroom. I’m not going anywhere, Mason.” She knows what I’m thinking or at least what I’m fearing. “I’m walking, just a short distance, but I will be here when you wake up. You fucked up, now show me you can learn from it rather than keep repeating the same fuck up.”
I stare at the space where she was standing because she has gone, to make tea and has left me in no doubt that I am not welcome to join her and that yes, I fucked up. But it’s more, I almost feel as though I have just been served with some kind of notice, but of what? I am too scared to answer my own question in case my thoughts are correct.
Chapter 52
Olivia
I’m on my third cup of tea before I feel fully awake, although the heavy weight in my chest just won’t be shifted, much like my nightmare that is still going around in my head. Distractions are proving difficult, but I persist and have sourced a few ideas for accessorising Charlotte’s sunroom as well as putting three different mood boards together. Maybe I could call her and arrange to meet up, see if any of my ideas appeal to her. Looking at the clock I can see it’s just before five in the morning, so I won’t call her yet, she’ll still be asleep like any normal person.
I wonder if Mason is sleeping but know he’s not. I know he won’t have gone back to sleep after I left him. His poor expression when he thought I was ready to bolt. His sad and guilty expression, his concern for me clear, and why wouldn’t he be concerned? He was privy to my biggest panic attack and complete meltdown in recent years and it certainly ranks in the top five of all time.
The coffee machine is still a challenge for me, but I am determined to master it, this morning at least and for once it is compliant and within a few minutes I have made two cups of coffee, one for me and one for Mase.
I need to see him, and we need to talk because I do understand why he didn’t tell me everything about Raymond, but he needs to accept that he doesn’t have that right. I am no longer a child and I don’t want to be treated like one, not by him. If we are doing this and going to make it work, we need to be equals. That decision was made at about four this morning along with several others that I will discuss with him too.
I open the bedroom door and find Mason in bed, sitting up with pillows propped behind him and his laptop on his lap.
“I’ve brought coffee,” I tell him with a nod towards the cups that are clattering together in my hand.
He looks tired and nervous, how I imagine he would have looked as a little boy when he was in trouble.
“Thank you.” He smiles awkwardly. “I was working, couldn’t sleep,” he explains as he moves the laptop.
I feel a little sorry for him because apart from anything else he has no clue what to do. He is lost and doesn’t want to risk saying or doing the wrong thing. I decided an hour ago that I wasn’t going to drag this out and make him suffer because I love him and playing with power and control is not be a healthy way to conduct a relationship, I know that better than most.
Crossing the room, I offer Mase his coffee before climbing back into bed where I sit with my own mug.
“We should probably address the elephant in the room,” Mase says.
“Yes, assuming I’m not the elephant.” I smile, aiming to break the tension.
