“Ollie?”
“Yeah.” My breath explodes with relief. “It’s me.” I bury my lips in her honey-scented hair. “It’s Ollie. And you’re Rose.”
“Oh God.” She sobs. “Ollie.”
“You’re at my house,” I croon. “Not at the hospital anymore, but you’re still safe.” I drag her onto my lap and crawl backwards on the bed, leaningagainst the wall, and when she curls her legs impossibly tight, I wrap my arm around those, too. “You’re okay.” I rub her ribs. Her hip. Her thigh. I rub all over and work on thawing her frozen skin. “You’re completely and totally safe, Rose. You’re with me, and I’m not gonna let anyone hurt you.”
“I’m sorry.” She hooks her arm over my shoulder and weeps against my neck. “I’m so sorry, Ollie.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for.” I blink-blink-blink and pray the emotion stinging the backs of my eyes will recede soon. But when it only gets worse, I simply close them and breathe her in. I hold her tight and rock until I could swear we’re the only people in the world. We’re the only humans alive, and goddammit, it’s my duty to help her through the things that scare her. “You just need to breathe.” I press my lips to her forehead and linger. It’s not a kiss. It’s just comfort. For her. For me. “If you promise to breathe, I promise to keep the monsters away.”
But how do I ensureI’llcontinue to breathe? How can I find the strength to fight her foes if I can’t even get my lungs to work?
“You’re doing great,” I rasp. “You’re doing amazing.”
I had her for a few hours yesterday, after the hammer, before bed. She spoke of flowers and felt like herself. She lectured me on plant care and ate my lasagna with a thrilling, stunning smile. And for those hours, everything was fine.
It was better than fine. It was the closest thing to perfect I’ve experienced since the beautiful, terrified woman landed in my ER.
But now, she’s more timid than a feral kitten. More shaky than she was when she first woke in the hospital. She sits at my counter in sweatpants a couple of sizes too large and a hoodie that gives her no shape except that of a roundblob. She wears fluffy socks up to her calves, tucking her pants inside, and despite the hair products my sister bought for her—the elastics and creams, brushes and clips—she uses none of it.
She’s regressed to the scared woman I met two weeks ago, and though she sits bent over a Sudoku puzzle, gripping a pencil in her hand and abusing her poor bottom lip between her teeth, she watches me with the wariness of a caged animal.
But I think she thinks I don’t notice her vigilance.
“You tired this morning?” I keep my movements slow. My every step measured and considered. I take two bowls from the cabinet and carefully set both on the counter. I nab a pair of spoons and place them beside the bowls, then I open my pantry and take out half a dozen different boxes of cereal.
If she wants Cocoa Krispies, she can have Cocoa Krispies. If she prefers flakes, I have those too.
“Rose?” I press my hands to the counter and wait. “You tired?”
She forces her eyes down to the puzzle, her chin resting in her hand. But she shrugs.
“You wanna talk about what happened?”
She shakes her head and clamps her lips shut. But I notice the way her chest jumps. The way her breath hitches and knocks her around from the inside.
“Are you sure? Because in my experience, these things fester if we hold them in. We heal when we share the burden.”
“You’re not my doctor anymore.” She wipes her cheek, breathing through her mouth because her nose is stuffed full of the tears she won’t let fall. “It’s not your job to heal me anymore.”
“You’re gonna be stubborn then?” I open the box of Cocoa Krispies and fill the bowl until little chocolate crackles spill over the edge and fall onto the counter. “I thought we were beyond the stiff formalities and prideful silences. Your subconscious kicked your ass last night… on your first night inside my home?” I set the Cocoa Krispies down and pick up the Frosted Flakes, filling the second bowl. “I’m gonna take that personally unless you tell me otherwise.”
“I had dreams while I was in the hospital.” She lifts her foot to the stool, squeezing her heel beside her butt. Then she sets her pencil down and wraps her arms around her leg instead. “I dreamed at least half the time I was in there.”
“Dreams, sure. But did you have nightmares?” I take the milk from the fridge and fill both bowls.
Snap, crackle, and pop.
“I wasn’t on shift every night while you were there, but on the nights I was, you didn’t have nightmares, and on the nights I wasn’t, there were no notes left in your files that indicated anything but a normal, restful sleep. So…?” I set the milk down with a heavy thud—she jumps—and push both bowls forward. “Take your pick, then tell me what your nightmare was about.”
“I don’twantto tell you.” She stares at my breakfast offerings, tears glittering in her eyes. “I’m not hungry.”
“The hell you aren’t.” I snatch up both spoons and stride around the counter. But instead of sittingbesideher, where she can avoid my eyes, I grab a stool and bring it to the end of the rectangle counter, plopping it onto the hardwood and planting my ass on top. I sit adjacent, with my knees—my entire body—facing her. “You’re only hurting yourself when you don’t eat.”
“Can’t eat when I’m not hungry.”
“Can’t be strong if you never eat.” I drop the spoons into the bowls, one in each, then I select my choice, dig into the Cocoa Krispies, and scoop a heaped spoonful onto my tongue. Putting the spoon back where it started, I pick up the other and scoop flakes. “You eat when you’re happy. When you’re comfortable and confident andnotscared.” Swallowing my cereal, I bring the spoon closer to her lips. “You had seconds last night, because my lasagna is fucking amazing.Like I told you, it would be. And then you had dessert, because I’m a man who knows a single course is not a meal. It’s a snack.” I tap her lip and leave a droplet of creamy white milk behind. “Eat. Because I’m terrified I made the wrong choice bringing you here.”
