She gasps, her hand flying to her chest. “You’re telling me I’m not your first damsel in distress? I feel so cheap. I mean it though, thank you.” She reaches out to touch my forearm and suddenly getting bits of sand and salty sea water eroding my prosthesis doesn’t matter at all.
I told myself I’d jumped in to help her. But the truth is, I think I’d have jumped even if it meant going under.
For a long heartbeat, she looks at me like I’m not broken. And for a moment, I almost forget I am.
CHAPTER 21
Rhiannon
Ijolt awake mid-dream, lungs heaving, heart racing like it’s late for something. It takes a moment for me to orient myself in the darkness.
It’s quiet. Maybe the stupid itching in my leg from the jellyfish sting pulled me awake. Maybe I had a nightmare. Is there anything more obnoxious than the human consciousness? Here are a bunch of thoughts that aren’t real, to scare the fuck out of you, and wake you up from the perfect night’s sleep?
No. There isn’t.
Satisfied my brain was simply playing tricks, I turn on my side, facing Robert. It feels like something shifted between us today while we were out on the boat. The panic on his face as he launched himself over the side like a lifeguard in that old TV series,Baywatch, was almost comical. And the concern etched into his features as he treated my sting was almost reverential.
I’m about to reach out and pull the sheets up over his body, when he lets out a tortured, muffled moan, so low and guttural itchills my blood in my veins.
Maybe this is what woke me up.
His beautiful, formerly peaceful face is twisted in agony as his arms and legs thrash on the bed. He’s mumbling, but the words are too obscure for me to make out. The sound he makes isn’t human—it’s a choked, animal noise that raises the hairs on my arms. Sheets snap and twist beneath his legs like they’re trying to restrain him.
My body stills, panic clenching my muscles and a helplessness I dislike intently spreads through me because unlike Robert with the jellyfish this morning, I don’t know what to do to help him.
Do I wake him?
Fuck.
I lie there, unable to look away, but the more I watch his pain, the more my stomach sours. I need to help him somehow. I fumble for my phone, thumb shaking, searching what to do when someone’s trapped in a nightmare.
My stomach sinks. Touching someone in a night terror can be disorienting or even dangerous. The sleeping person might lash out instinctively, not realizing where they are. As much as I can take a hit on the rugby pitch, I think Robert would hate himself forever if he hurt me in his sleep.
The internet tells me to talk to him in calm, low tones, so I try variations of, “Robert, you’re safe. You’re here. It’s Rhiannon.”
When that doesn’t work, it encourages light touch on his forearm, but from a distance, and not touching his face or chest. His fists are clenched like he’s holding a weapon or ready to fight.
I can’t ask him, however. The article I’m reading says when he wakes up, I shouldn’t press him for details. I need to let him orient himself, breathe, drink water, come back to baseline before I ask or even try to comfort him.
Sweat beads across his forehead and upper lip as he writhesand twists in the sheets. When he’s awake, he’s all sharp edges and control… until the moment he isn’t.
My hand twitches toward him before my brain catches up with what my phone just told me—not to touch. The urge to fix it, to fixhim, burns behind my ribs. He’s in so muchpain.
His choked breathing strikes at my core, and after a full two minutes of trying to coax him out of his nightmare, his eyes snap open, revealing a terror I can’t imagine feeling.
He’s disorientated, but the flash of fear in his eyes slides behind a carefully positioned mask, and my heart splinters. He doesn’t want to be seen. He’s well practiced at hiding this part of himself from people.
His eyes meet mine, and if the light was on, I bet he’d be blushing. I should have been better prepared before I woke him, but I need some supplies. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”
He doesn’t react or answer as I slip out of the expensive sheets, reach for a facecloth, wet it, and grab a bottle of water.
When I get back to his side of the bed, the bedside lamp has been turned on, and Robert is clutching his head in his hands with his back against the headboard. As though sensing my presence, he peers at me over the tips of his fingertips. “I’m sorry. It’s been so long, I thought… I thought we were safe.” His tone is dripping in embarrassment, shame, and that splinter in my heart becomes a fissure.
“It’s okay.” I gesture at the bed. “Can I sit?”
He nods, looking at what I’m holding in my hands. I open the bottle of water and hand it to him. “Small sips.” He looks like a man carved down to the smallest version of himself, as if taking up less space will make him less seen.
His lips twitch like I’m teaching my granny to suck eggs, but he does as I suggest. “Do you mind if I touch you?” I gesture the cool washcloth to his face. The beads of sweat aretrickling down his temples and nose. I bet that shirt is stuck to him, too.
