And then we fell to the floor together, sitting in a different kind of puddle—one caused by both of our tears.
Chapter 12
Woodrow—present day
“Why are you all sweaty?” Jolie waited for me to turn to the watch I’d placed on my bedside table before asking her question, like she couldn’t bring herself to look and speak to me at the same time.
I’d dropped off for a little while; my spinning head needed the comfort of a soft pillow. But sleep wasn’t a peaceful time for me. . . monsters lurked in the dark, dragging painful memories from the shadows.
I’d trusted Jolie not to run as she filled her stomach with a taste of everything on offer, while I tossed and turned at her side.
I knew she wouldn’t go too far with her face exposed.
And even if I was wrong, I wouldn’t have had the energy to chase her right now.
I was always tired these days, and it was getting harder and harder to fight the drowse.
An empty space occupied the gap between us on the giant bed. She lay so close to the edge, anyone would have sworn I had a disease—one she could catch.
She was probably fucking fearful to see who had actually woken up this morning.
Lucky for her, I was still me.
For now.
My soul was vibrating out of my glistening skin.
I struggled to claim back my staggering breaths from the nightmare that stole them.
The big white face of my watch told me I was up too fucking early to face the day. Because it wasn’t day. The room was illuminated by a false light. The lamp at the bedside allowed her to read her eBook without any strain on her eyes.
The curtains were drawn; a slight crack down the middle showed no sun peeping in.
“Have you been to sleep yet?” I asked, examining the pinked whites of her eyes.
“Not yet. I finished my book.”
“That was quick.”
“I’m going to start another one tomorrow. It keeps me out of my head, and that’s good.” Her words sounded of optimism, but her tone was the complete opposite.
“When did the daydreams start?”
“It’s a PTSD coping mechanism, apparently, or so, I’ve been told. It started the day my dad was killed.”
“You don’t believe that?” I lay back, adjusting my single pillow beneath my head. Anything too high was a no-go.
“I didn’t at first. I thought I was developing a mental illness. I thought I was losing my mind, but I didn’t care because it muted my pain. Now, I see it for what it is. I didn’t have it before all my trauma. Before all the loss. And it does help me cope. But I’m always aware. That’s not always the case with mental health disorders.”
I tried to nod, but my dry throat wouldn’t allow me to comfortably do so. “Is there still a bottle of water on the bed?”
“Probably.”
“Can you take a look?”
I felt theI don’t want to do anything for you attitudeemanating from her skin.
“Jolie, I can ask you as my girl, or I can demand you to do as I say because you’re my slave.” I didn’t want to make that comment. I’d never make her do anything she didn’t want, not while I was this version of me, at least. But my pain did the talking. . . and I knew that comment would get her riled up enough to bring more to the conversation I wanted.
