I let him have the lie.
Erin wipes her face with the stuffed rabbit’s ear. “You were dreaming.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“Yes, you were.”
“No.”
She looks at me, scared and uncertain.
I give her the smallest shake of my head.
Let him keep what he can.
Heath drags the blanket up around himself and turns his face toward the window, shoulders shaking beneath fabric he clearly hates needing. Erin looks like she wants to crawl down beside him, but she waits. Maybe because he is prickly. Maybe because she has learned the same thing I have: sometimes helping Heath means not making him admit he needs help.
I sit beside the cushion, not close enough to trap him.
“Does that happen a lot?” I ask.
“No.”
Omar’s silence says yes.
I glance at him once.
His expression gives nothing away, but his eyes do.
Enough.
“Did it happen last night?” I ask.
Heath says nothing.
“Okay,” I say.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You don’t have to.”
His fingers tighten around the blanket. “I don’t need you to fix it.”
“I know.”
“You can’t.”
“I know that too.”
That makes him look at me.
“I can sit here,” I say. “That’s all.”
He stares like the offer is suspicious. Maybe it is. Maybe every adult offer sounds like bait when the adults in your life have used kindness as a hallway to punishment.
“For how long?” he asks.
“As long as Omar allows.”
