I’ll unpack.
No. This is ridiculous. “I can’t stay here,” I mutter aloud, pushing a hand through my hair. I sit on the rug on the floor and stare at my suitcase. “I’ll get Marek to take me home later. After his practice. Or I can call an Uber.”
I’ve always talked to myself, so I’m not worried that I’m actually going insane.
I get up and amble back out to the hall. I peek into Marek’s room again. The urge to snoop is strong. From here, I take in the huge bed with a very thick mattress, the headboard and base upholstered in tan leather, with all white bedding. It looks so inviting…
Damn. I’m tired.
The bedside tables are funky square wooden boxes with skinny legs, the long dresser similar. Socks sit on the floor near a hamper, a T-shirt is crumpled on the bed, and a couple of empty glasses sit on the dresser. I like that he’s a little bit messy, but not a complete slob.
I remember the look on his face when I told him what happened between us had to be just a… fling thing. He tried not to show it, but the pain that tightened his face mademehurt inside. He walked out. Said goodbye. And since he walked back in my door to “rescue” me, he’s been polite, considerate, and… cool.
Through an open door I see part of another bathroom. I resist the urge to go check it out and head back to the kitchen.
I love this kitchen. It’s narrow, but long, with lots of counter space and storage, and four stools sitting on the other side of the long island. I smooth my hands over the black stone countertop. “Beautiful.”
I don’t know what to do. I’m not hungry. I could go out. Nobody will be looking for me here. But the idea makes my insides churn unpleasantly.
I’m just so tired.
It’s only noon, but it’s been an eventful day so far. Why not lie down? So I trek back to the spare bedroom and stretch out on the bed. First on top of the covers. But I’m cold, so I pull them back and snuggle in under them. The silence of the apartment settles over me like another blanket.
* * *
I’m being smothered. I can’t breathe. I can’t see anything. But I hear people screaming. High-pitched voices, wailing and crying. I need to help them, but I can’t move. I’m paralyzed. I struggle to move, to get whatever is on my face off, but I can’t. I can’t. I can’t move. I can’t help anyone. And the screams go on.
My heart is trying to hammer its way out of my chest.
“Nikki.”
“Let me go!” I fight against the restraint. “Let me go!”
“Nikki, it’s okay. It’s okay.”
The voice, low and steady, penetrates the screaming and my fog of choking blindness. The hands holding me aren’t restraining me, they’re keeping me safe. I rise through the clouds, my heart pounding, struggling to see, and then I can, and it’s Marek. He’s holding my arm, another hand on my forehead.
“Shhhh.” He strokes my hair. “You’re okay.”
I make some kind of noises, gulping for air, crying. “I’m so scared,” I tell him.
He gathers me up into his arms, holding me securely, pressing my head to his shoulder. I can’t shake the feeling of dread gnawing inside me. I burrow into him, trembling, sucking in shallow breaths.
“It was a dream,” I finally whisper, when I can. “A bad dream.”
“Yeah. Just a dream.” His hand glides up and down my back. “You’re here. You’re safe.”
My breathing gradually slows, my heart-rate decreasing. “I feel a little sick.”
He draws back. “Are you going to throw up?”
I pull in a slow breath. “I don’t know.” I close my eyes. “I don’t know.”
“I’ll get you some water.”
“No. Don’t… don’t go.” I gulp. “Please.”
He pulls me closer again and we sit for a long time without talking, just holding each other. He pets and caresses me, calming me. But I still don’t want to let go.
