“Keller, everything is fine. I locked up the house, so there’s nothing to worry about. We’re safe.”
He falls back on the bed, shoulders slumped as he scans me. “It . . . it was a dream,” he says, as if he’s trying to convince himself.
“Yes,” I answer.
Slowly, he lowers back down and brings both of his hands to his face as he takes a few deep breaths. His hands shake, and my heart breaks.
I hate his nightmares. They overtake his mind and body, and it’s hard for him to calm down after them. I realized this the first time he had one in Harrogate.
I move in closer and press my hand to his stomach. “Do you need a second? I have some Gatorade if you want some.”
“No,” he whispers. “Just . . . lie with me.”
Not again.
The first time was because I felt bad for him after throwing up, the pleading in his voice foolishly tricking me. But this time? How can I allow myself to fall into his arms again when I know with every touch, every hold, I can easily fall back into old habits with him, despite the way he broke me the day of our wedding.
“Please,” he says in a strangled voice that cuts right through me.
I suck in a sharp breath, hating myself.
Hating him.
Hating this entire situation. I was making it work without him. I was moving on, finding joy in the little things, finding little moments of hope to keep me distracted from the gut-wrenching pain.
And then, here I am, all over again, in a situation where my heart goes out to him, aches to help him when he appears to be so weak. So damaged.
I bite the corner of my lip and move to my side of the bed. On a deep breath with a reminder to my soul that this is nothing more than comfort for him to get better, I slip under the covers. He slides against my back and moves his hand under my shirt again and presses his palm to my stomach.
“You’re not wearing anything other than my shirt,” he whispers.
“I was lazy,” I say.
“I like you like this.” His voice almost sounds dreamy, like he’s about to drift off to sleep. “I’ve missed you,” he says so softly that I have to bite on the inside of my cheek to stop myself from crying.
Because there was a time, a few months ago, when I’d have done anything to hear him tell me that. When I’d have given anything to be held like this by him again. To feel his strong presence behind me, melting into my very marrow.
But as the time went on during those three months, I grew more and more bitter.
So now, instead of melting into his touch, I form a ball of anger in the pit of my stomach, a ball that twists and pulls, making me angrier and angrier.
Because this isn’t fair.
Because if he really missed me, then why did he leave?
* * *
Crash.
I spring up in bed, the darkness of night covering the room, making it hard to see.
I pat Keller’s side of the bed but come up short. I glance around, not seeing anything but light coming from the other room.
“Keller?” I call out.
The bedroom door opens, and he appears. “Fuck, sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up. I dropped a pot.”
“What are you doing?” I ask, wiping my eyes, while trying to calm my pulse that just skyrocketed.
