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Sleep doesn’t come.

I lie in Damiano’s old bed staring at the ceiling, turning from one side to the other until the sheets twist around my legs and I finally kick them away.

Every time I close my eyes, I see him.

The dream keeps coming back, so vivid I can still feel his arms around me, still hear his voice.

You promised.

“I know,” I whisper into the dark.

I roll onto my back and cover my face with both hands.

Then, because apparently my brain hasn’t tortured me enough for one night, I start thinking about Jude.

I don’t need your help.

I can’t be helped.

I cringe.

God.

He brought me coffee.

He bought me groceries when I had no money.

He sat on the floor of a library surrounded by books I destroyed and helped me pick them up one by one.

And I treated him like crap before throwing him out of my house.

Worse, he let me.

He didn’t yell back. Didn’t tell me I was ungrateful or crazy. Didn’t remind me of everything he’d already done for me.

I told him to leave.

So he left.

God, he must think Damiano married an awful woman.

And the worst part? He just stood there and took it.

Why does that make me feel worse?

You promised you’d try.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

“How the hell do I try? What does that even mean?” I whisper.

You promised.

I reach for my phone on the nightstand.

4:47 a.m.

Fuck it.