I step forward, using both hands, and shove him as hard as I can.
“Wake up, Brighton!” I scream, shoving him again—again—until he gives ground. “Wake the fuck up!” I yell, over and over until we’re pushed so far back that I’m free of the tiny bathroom and have room to breathe. Once the crying starts, it doesn’t stop. I can’t control it. I don’t want to do it, but it starts. I push on his chest again, harder this time.
“You know where you are,” I whisper, tears streaming. I don’t shove that time, I wrap my arms around him. I squeeze tightly, trying to slow down his breathing enough for him to regulate his mind. “Please, Brighton,” I beg. “Come back.”
I sound pathetic, I can hear the whine in my voice, but trying to convince myself that he’s okay is getting harder and harder. The barriers between him and what happened all those years ago start to break down.
“Please.” I press my face against his chest and feel his legs give out as he buries his face into my hair, and we collapse to the living-room floor in a tangle of limbs and breath. His hands wrap around me tightly, and he pulls me as close as I can get.
I can hear him repeating himself over and over, his voice hoarse and muffled against my head, and his fingers dig into my skin like he’s trying to ground himself. I inhale, finding whatever courage I have left, and pull back from his chest.
Seeing him like this, so small and broken. I feel the second my heart shatters like glass.
He reaches up with a hand and stops, his eyes widening on the blood, and he freezes before he starts frantically looking me over.
Stop, stop, stop.I grab his face, making him tense in my grip and look me in the eyes. “Are you okay?” I ask him, and he flinches.
“Me?” His heavy brows furrow. Brighton sets me to the floor, breaking contact completely, and slides back until he’s against the wall. He looks over at the door and starts to piece together what happened. The door was a goner, it hangs funny on the hinges, and there are tiny pieces of wood splintered across the bathroom floor.
Brighton’s hands are still bleeding, and he looks down at them with a shaky lip. His hair falls against his forehead, and I can see him trying to gain control of the shallow breaths without results.
“Brighton?” I reach out across the floor, giving my hand to him.
He continues to stare at his own, his jaw grinding as he silently reasons with himself.Talk to me. My heart is racing unevenly in my chest, and the color of my shirt feels suffocating around my throat as I wait in silence for him to do something, do anything. I feel like an idiot waiting for him to reach out for me.
“Bri,” I whisper, half his name broken on my lips.
“Don’t call me that.” He goes rigid. “Not you.”
I feel like a scolded child.
“He was right.” Brighton tries to shuffle to his feet, but his body is still weak, and he stumbles a little before sliding back down against the wall.
“Who was right?” I ask him, trying to ignore how jittery I feel. Any sharp movement he makes turns me rigid and makes me flinch. He’d never hurt you.Very convincing.
“He doesn’t trust me, and he shouldn’t,” Brighton grumbles.
“I don’t understand…” I say, I shift to my knees and put both hands flat on the floor.
“You don’t need to,” he snaps, looking up at me. “It doesn’t matter.”
That stings.
“What the hell do you mean it doesn’t matter?” I stare at him without blinking.
“It doesn’t fucking matter, Rhea. Any of it. This—” When he finally looks up, the pain I feel is worse than anything I’ve ever experienced.He means us. You.
I inhale slowly, trying to control my thoughts as they whip around my subconscious like a hundred tennis balls. “Will you just talk to me?” I grind out.
“There’s nothing to talk about.” He shakes his head.
“No, you don’t get to do that to me!” I cry out. “You’re going to tell me what is going on right now!”
“It won’t change anything!” His hand shoots out, and I flinch.Even worse, he catches it. His head cocks to the side, and he swallows tightly. “See.”
“I—”
“What am I supposed to say that takes it back?” His bottom lip trembles like he’s working his hardest to shove down everything else. “Sorry?” he huffs. “It’s done, Rhea. You know it.”
