I bolt upright, crying out as I scramble up the bed, flattening my back against the wall, my gaze darting wildly around the room.
Slowly, my vision clears, my small cell coming into focus, and my panic starts to subside. A loud sob breaks free of my chest and I’m gasping for air. Tears stream down my face as I scan the gray block walls, cold concrete floor, stainless-steel toilet with no seat, and small sink. The only other fixture in the room is a small bedside table where I store my clothes and the few toiletries I’m permitted. It’s bolted to the floor in the windowless room. Fixating on my surroundings always helps ground me after a nightmare. Gradually, my breathing recalibrates, and I push knotted clumps of hair back off my face. Sweat glistens on my skin as I stand on wobbly legs.
It was only a nightmare, I tell myself repeatedly, as I strip off my damp clothes, splashing water over my overheated skin. Redressing in my spare bra and underwear—the only spare clothing I have—I climb back under the covers, shivering in spite of the humidity in the room.
The nightmares have been frequent and brutal since everything went down, but I haven’t had any for a week, and I thought they were passing, but I guess I was wrong. This was the worst one yet. Squeezing my eyes closed, I immediately see his face. I cry out again, loud, anguished sobs birthed straight from my soul. Blinking my eyes open, I curl into a fetal position as more tears sneak from my eyes.
“Shut the fuck up, bitch!” Camila—I think—shouts, banging on the wall from the cell she shares with Sofia. “Some of us are trying to sleep.”
I block her out, forcing my eyes to remain open as I consciously avoid sleep. Even though I suspect Dr. Reynolds will quiz me about it at my therapy session later, I’d rather endure her prying questions over another one of those nightmares.
I can hardly keep my eyes open at breakfast, and my mouth is open in a perpetual yawn. “You look like shit,” Luc says, plopping down on the chair beside me.
Ryder swats the back of his head. “There are much nicer ways of saying that.”
“Like what?” he questions over a mouthful of rubbery scrambled eggs, looking perplexed.
Ryder leans across the table, fighting a smile. “You look tired today, Zeta. Did you have trouble sleeping?”
I burst out laughing, can’t help it, and he grins, offering me a cheeky wink before shoveling a forkful of eggs into his beautiful mouth. “You were definitely right, Luc,” I say, smiling at my only other friend. “Ryder’s got good game.”
“All joking aside,” Ryder says, a split second later, “are you okay?” His face oozes concern, and warmth floods my chest cavity. It’s been so long since anyone cared that I’d forgotten how amazing it feels to know you’re not alone.
I want to tell him but not here. Not in front of Luc and in earshot of the cafeteria. “I’m good. Thanks for asking.” I pin him with a look, and he nods, instantly dropping it. It’s so strange how in tune we are with one another. It constantly freaks me out but in a good way.
“So, what’s up?” Ryder asks me when we’re in the library a couple hours later. This has become our “place.” We get an assigned half hour in the library daily, during schooltime, and most of our classmates do a snatch and grab leaving us in virtual privacy. Sometimes, a couple of the other boys loiter to read, but they barely pay us any attention. Ryder and I have had some of our best chats in this room.
“It’s no biggie,” I start, trying to downplay it. “I just have nightmares, and it was a particularly bad one last night. I couldn’t go back to sleep.”
“Are they random nightmares or the same recurring ones?” He takes my hand, walking us toward the small desks at the back of the room.
I don’t think he’s noticed, but he’s been holding my hand a lot lately. Not that I’m in any way complaining. I love the feel of his big hand engulfing my smaller one, and it never fails to cause a flurry of butterflies in my chest.
“Recurring nightmares,” I admit, sinking into the chair with an audible sigh. I slump forward on the desk, laying my head on my outstretched arms.
“Related to previous events in your life?” he quietly asks, leaning toward me and keeping his voice low. I slowly nod. Silence envelops us for a few moments. “I get those type of nightmares too,” he whispers.
I’m surprised he admitted that, because he’s notoriously cagey anytime anything about our pasts comes up in conversation. I won’t lie and say I’m not curious about his past. Specifically, what landed him in here. But he respects my privacy, so I want to show him the same respect. Besides, there’s a teeny tiny part of me that worries I’ll think differently of him once I know. Which is stupid really, because whatever he’s done is in the past, and we all make mistakes. I know he’s a decent guy, and that’s the only thing that matters. I haven’t had a real friend since kindergarten—Mom’s rep and my stepdad’s “job” made sure of that—and I’m enjoying Ryder’s friendship too much to risk it by digging into his past. So, I let sleeping dogs lie, telling myself it’s inconsequential anyway.
“How do you handle them?” I stifle another yawn.
“I’ve worked out some strategies with Dr. Blaufeld. Once I have a routine, and I feel more in control of things, my mind is less troubled.” He looks up at the ceiling, and his chest heaves, almost painfully. When he lowers his head and fixes his gaze on me a few minutes later, his torment is laid bare. His willingness to expose his vulnerability to me only makes me appreciate him more. He’s trusting me in a way he doesn’t trust anyone else. Not even Luc, and those two are close. But what we share transcends that.
“But there isn’t really anything I can do to stop them altogether,” he quietly adds. “Only manage the outcome in a more controlled way.” He rests his head on his arms, mirroring my position, and our faces are so close they are almost touching. We stare at one another with so much left unsaid, but sometimes, words are redundant, and there is more meaning in understanding without anything being verbalized. In this moment, his pain is my pain and vice versa. We don’t need to articulate it. That truth resonates between us as if we had spoken the words out loud.
I can honestly say I have never felt more connected to another living soul than I do to Ryder in this moment.
I’d do anything to alleviate his pain, and I know, unquestionably, that he would do the same for me.
My eyes wander to his lips, and my heart rate kicks up a gear. I wonder what he would do if I leaned over and kissed him. Would he kiss me back or reject me? Sometimes, I think Ryder shares the same intense desire I do—a desire to push us beyond the realm of friendship into something more. Other times, he seems so casual that I’m sure he just sees me as a good friend. And, let’s be honest, in a place like this, it’s easy to latch onto someone, to indulgeanythingthat makes it feel like less of a solitary experience, and it’s easy to make that into something it’s not.
“Zeta.” His whisper drags me out of my head. I realize I’ve been lost in thought, just staring at his mouth. Thank God, I’m not the type to blush, or my face would probably be scarlet right now.
“What?” My voice sounds all hoarse, like I’ve developed an instant sore throat.
“Have you ever been kissed?”
I blink profusely, and my lips stretch into a soft smile. “I’m seventeen not seven, Ryder. Of course, I’ve been kissed.”
