“I’m serious,” I add. “You’re not sleeping on my floor.”
She studies me for a long second, weighing something in her mind, then she exhales.
“Okay,” she says. “Then we can share the bed. But just sleeping.”
“Of course,” I say. “As long as you’re okay with it, though. I promise to give you space.”
She nods. “I trust you.”
The words land heavier than anything else tonight.
I swallow hard. “I won’t ever give you a reason not to.”
We settle into the bed, both of us hyperaware of the distance between us. I stay on my side, closest to the door. I hand her the remote, and she rolls to her side, adjusting her arm underneath her head as she scrolls through the movies before landing on10 Things I Hate About You.
The movie starts, the familiar music filling the room. She relaxes into the bed, her shoulders dropping until eventually her breathing evens out.
I keep my distance like I promised, staying still even when she shifts closer to me without realizing it. She shifts to curl her body inwards, tucking her knees to her chest, and her forehead drifts closer to me.
She’s out, and I don’t move.
My attention shifts from the movie to watching her instead. Her lashes rest against her cheeks, the faint furrow between her brows finally smoothing out. I imagine her sleeping alone in the cold loft on that pathetic excuse of an air mattress, and it doesn’t sit right with me.
She can’t go back there.
As the movie plays quietly, my mind starts working in ways it always does when I can’t turn it off. Lining up options and ways to make it make sense without her feeling trapped.
I already know she won’t like any idea I come up with.
She’s stubborn, this much I’ve learned. I think she’d rather go back to that loft than ever ask for help.
I glance down at her again, at the way she’s curled into herself. I tell myself I’ll figure out a plan. But first, I need to talk to my father.
I shift just enough to pull the blanket higher around her shoulders, careful not to wake her. She burrows herself into her pillow, her arm sliding across my chest. Her hand tightens briefly in my shirt, then she relaxes again, her breath steady.
I lean my head back against my pillow, eyes on the ceiling.
She’s safe now.
And in the stillness of my room, I make a promise to myself that I won’t admit out loud.
I’ll do whatever I have to do to keep it that way.
Whether she likes my plan or not.
Chapter Ten
Brinley
I wake to the sound of water running from the sink in the bathroom and a low voice on the other side of the thin wall.
For a few disoriented seconds, I don’t know where I am. The bed is comfortable. The air smells like clean soap and wood instead of stale carpet and cigarettes. The ceiling above me isn’t the one from my childhood bedroom or the motel room I’ve mentally tried to erase from my memory.
Cooper.
The hockey house.
I lie still, my body heavy and warm under the blanket. The water shuts off, and there’s a pause before I hear his voice again.
