I sit up and sigh, patting Earl when I jostle him a little. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter because I’m not going to sleep with our dad’s best friend. That would be a monumentally bad idea.”
Sloane rolls her eyes. “Fine. But you don’t get to be mad when you do, and I say I told you so.”
6
NICO
Idrain the chamomile tea that’s long gone cold, and set the cup down with a sigh, rubbing my face.
My eyes are heavy, the words blurring as I try to take in the page of the book in my lap. It’s been two days since I woke up on the couch with Este, and I’ve barely slept since. And considering the way she dragged herself upstairs tonight, exhaustion weighing her down, I don’t think she has, either. But she also hasn’t come downstairs in the middle of the night since then.
I’ve been keeping an eye on her over the past couple of days. Bryan wasn’t kidding about how much she loves her Kindle—she’s glued to it almost all day, curled up on the couch, or sitting at the kitchen table. Yesterday, I watched her peel an apple without stopping reading. It’s impressive, really.
She’s dozed off a couple of times on the couch, but never for more than half an hour. The most sleep I’ve gotten is two hours last night, right after she went to bed, but the wind woke me up, and I couldn’t get back to sleep. What if she has a nightmare? What if she needs something? I sleep so thinly these days that I’m pretty sure I’dwake up, but I don’t seem to be able to let myself take the risk.
Willing myself to at least try, I close my book and my eyes and let my head drop onto my shoulder. The same physiotherapist who recommended tea all those years ago was also the one to recommend classical music. Like the tea, it doesn’t help much, but it’s something to focus on. I pick out the different layers, the way the instruments harmonize and contrast, and I feel a heavy weight pressing down on me as sleep tries to take hold. The music goes foggy, hazy. I start to lose sense of everything, from the soft blanket thrown over my lap, the whistling snores from one of the boys, the smoky scent of the fire…
And then she screams.
I sit up with a start, my book slipping to the ground with a thud. The boys wake up, too, following me to the foot of the stairs.
“Stay,” I tell them, my voice like gravel as I take the stairs two at a time.
I expect to find darkness when I push open Este’s door, but she left the lamp on. She’s whimpering, twisting in the covers, gripping them so tight her knuckles are white, her face screwed up—in pain or fear, I’m not sure. I cross the room and lean over the bed, placing my hand on her shoulder.
“Wake up, angel,” I say, shaking her gently.
She chokes in a gasp of air, her eyelids fluttering. “Nico?”
“Yeah. I’m here. I’ve got you. It was just a bad dream,” I tell her, running my hand over her hair.
Este opens her eyes, exhaustion etched all over her face, and her lip wobbles. It’s the only warning I have before she bursts into tears.
I don’t think before I sit down on the bed beside her and pull her into my arms. When she nestles into me, her shoulders shaking, I have a brief “shit, this is inappropriate” moment, but it’s hard to care when she’s clinging to me like a lifeline. I recognize her need to ground herself, even if I don’t know where it comes from.
So, I hold her. I let her cry it out on me, and I rub my thumb in soothing circles over the nape of her neck. And every single sob that racks her body sends a sharp pain through mine.
I’m not sure how long she cries for, but my T-shirt is drenched when she sits up, her face red and tear-stained. She cringes when she sees the wet patch.
“Oh my god, I amsosorry.”
“Este.”
She lifts the hem of her T-shirt and wipes her face. “Right. No apologizing. Sorry. Shit. Never mind.” She leans back against the headboard, closes her eyes, and releases a long, shaky breath. “Thank you. I don’t… It’s been a while since I’ve let someone hold me like that.”
For a moment, she sounds so small, and it damn near knocks the breath out of me. Even right before she passed out after the drive, she didn’t sound this vulnerable. I turn to look at her, at the tension, exhaustion, and sadness so clearly covering her. I hate that she feels it, but I like that she’s letting herself show it in front of me.
“Thank you for letting me,” I tell her, and she opens hereyes, turns her head to meet my gaze, and lifts her lips in a ghost of a smile that doesn’t leave her mouth. “Do you want to talk about it? You don’t have to, but I’m here if you want to get it off your chest.”
Este is quiet for so long that I take it as an answer. Until she picks Amelia Bearhart up from the pillow beside her, hugs her to her chest, and asks, “Do you know what happened? Did my dad tell you?”
“No. He told me something happened, and that you’ve been going through a hard time, but nothing more than that.”
“That figures,” she says, shaking her head. “They don’t like to talk about it. Sloane’s the only one who doesn’t pretend nothing happened.”
“I’m familiar with that particular coping mechanism. I don’t recommend it.”
Este laughs. It’s still a little shaky, a little choked up, but it sounds genuine. Progress.
