“Tomorrow,” he says, and leaves the rest for the morning to decide.
“Tomorrow,” I agree.
The door stays open.In the other room, a girl sleeps like sleeping is a new instrument, and she’s close to hearing how it’s tuned.In this room, two men who broke each other a little are trying to be easier on the wood this time.
“Static,” I murmur, just to feel the word on my tongue.
“Static,” he echoes, and it doesn’t mean noise for once.It means stop, breathe, begin again.
ChapterTwelve
Barret
I don’t know when sleep takes me.The plan was simple: trade off at two, wake Eddie, and switch watch.Somewhere between the floor cracking as the temperature went down and his hand still in my hair, the room turns dim and wide, and I drift.
A scream rips me up, though.
I’m on my feet before my name finishes in Eddie’s mouth.He’s already at the doorway, moving—barefoot, fast—his shoulder hitting the wall, he cuts toward her room.I’m right behind, heart pounding, the house long as a runway.
The corridor holds its breath.Nightlight glows along the baseboards, fog smeared across the glass like a thumbprint.The ocean works at the cliff below us.A curtain of cold air sits where the stairwell opens, and I take it in like medicine.
Cleo’s room is lit by the bedside lamp—just enough to find faces.The turntable is a quiet circle on the console, a stack of vinyl in its sleeves like calm instructions.On the low table, the tea tray waits, honey spoon stuck in amber.The bed is a wreck of sheets, and in the middle of it, she’s fighting something I can’t see.
“Cleo,” Eddie says from the threshold, palms up, voice low.“I’m here.Barret’s here.Can we come closer?”
Her eyes are open, but they don’t have this room in them yet.She makes a sound that isn’t language and scrambles back against the headboard, shoulder hitting the carved wood.The sweater has slipped; the bruises along her collarbone look old and new at once.My body wants to lunge, to fix, to hold.I stop myself like I promised.
“Lamp stays,” I say quietly, as much to me as to him.“Window?”
“Permission first,” Eddie murmurs, then, more clearly: “Cleo, can I open the window a crack for air?”
A beat.Her head jerks—yes or reflex, I can’t tell, but Eddie takes the softer risk.He cracks the latch.Fog slips in, a thin line of clean.The room shifts from dream to reality by one inch.
I sink to the rug at the foot of the bed, back to the wall, knees up, the way I’ve learned she can see me without feeling cornered.
“I can go downstairs and turn the kettle on?”Eddie asks.“Fresh hot water.”
Her breath stutters.“Don’t—don’t go.”
“I won’t,” he says, and he doesn’t.He leans into the doorframe and stays in her sightline, every inch of him announced.“May I sit?”He gestures to the upholstered chair by the window.
She shakes her head.“Sit on the bed.”
Slowly, he sits.
“You’re safe,” I say before I can stop myself, then choke on the lie.We can’t protect her from her mind or her memories.“You’re ...here.You’re here with us.”
She drags in breath like it owes her money.“He—” She stops, swallows hard.“I thought he was?—”
“He isn’t,” Eddie says.“It’s me.It’s us.”
“Do you want touch?”I ask.“Elbow.Hand.Nothing else.”
Her jaw works.“No,” she says.“Not yet.”
“Okay.”
“Can I ask a thing?”Eddie says, voice the sound of a warm towel.“Why don’t you come up with a word.A word you say if you need us to stop talking or to change something.”
