Chapter 16
Sleep Buddies
JONAH
I should check on Eli.
I slide out from under the sheets and pad down the hall to his room. The door’s still cracked open as I left it, but when I peek inside, the bed is empty, covers thrown back.
“Eli?” My voice is unsteady.
I push the door all the way open and flip the light switch.
The pale-blue walls, the stuffies, the Star Wars posters—they’re all the same as before, except for the gaping absence of the kid. I check under the bed to find nothing, not even dust bunnies. I say his name again. Silence, except for the dull thudding in my ears.
My stomach drops, and I trip over Eli’s discarded sweatpants, shoving open the bathroom door so hard it rebounds off the stopper.
Nothing.
The chill in my spine goes arctic as my mind races back to how Eli ran away from the foster home in Portland, which is how he got to Dickens in the first place.
My heartbeat jacks, my limbs rubbery as I rush into the hall.
“Eli!” I cry out, so strangled, I barely recognize it as my own voice.
No response. The bathroom across the hall is dark and empty.
Jesus Christ. My mind races through worst-case scenarios as I rush through the house, checking rooms, flipping on lights.
“Eli!” I call over and over, trying to keep the terror out of my voice. “Are you here?”
I check the game room, the guest rooms, even my room again in case he came looking for me. Nothing. My pulse erupts as I race downstairs, checking the kitchen, living room, even looking out the windows to see if he’s in the backyard.
Just as I’m about to call 911, a sound catches my attention. A sniff, barely audible, coming from upstairs. As I head to Eli’s room, I hear it again: a muffled sob.
I scan the room, checking under the bed, behind the door. The sound seems to come from the closet. I approach it, easing the pocket door open.
Eli’s curled up in the far corner, knees pulled to his chest, clutching his Flash action figure so tightly his knuckles are white. Tears streak his face, and his eyes go wide as he looks up at me.
“Eli,” I breathe, relief flooding through me. I rush over, kneel, and pull him into a hug. “Hey, what’s going on? Why are you in here?”
He doesn’t answer, just curls tighter around himself, rocking.
I keep holding him tight. “Are you okay? Did something scare you?”
A nod, but still no words.
“Can you tell me what it was? A bad dream?”
He nods.
My heart splinters. “I’m sorry, Eli. I’m so sorry.”
“I want my mom,” he manages through a sob, fresh tears spilling down his cheeks.
“I know you do.” My own eyes burn with unshed tears. “I wish I could bring her back for you. I really do.”
He’s shaking in my arms now, his small body wracked with silent sobs.
“Please stop touching me,” he chokes out between gasps for air.
I withdraw my arms and scoot away. “Okay, I won’t. I promise.”
He continues to shake, his breathing ragged. I don’t know what to do. Should I call someone? Zoe? The therapist?
No, this is my son. My responsibility. I need to figure this out.
“Is it okay if I sit here with you?” I gesture to the floor of the closet beside him. “I won’t touch you. I’ll just sit.”
He doesn’t say no, which I take as permission. I lower myself to the floor, keeping a careful distance between us. The closet is barely big enough for both of us, but I make myself as small as possible, giving him space.
“When I was a little older than you,” I say after a moment, “I used to hide in my closet too. After I lost a game, or when I was upset about something.”
Eli doesn’t respond, but his shaking seems to lessen.
“It felt safer somehow,” I continue. “Like a little cave where nothing bad could find me.”
His nod is almost imperceptible.
“Your Flash is pretty cool.” I nod toward the action figure still clutched in his hand. “I’ve been meaning to tell you that. Has he been with you a long time?”
“Mom gave him to me when I was four,” Eli whispers. “For my birthday.”
It’s the most personal thing he’s shared with me yet, and I treasure it. “He looks like a good friend.”
“He’s fast,” Eli says. “Faster than anything. Nothing can catch him.”
I understand the appeal to a kid who’s had his whole world ripped away.
“It’s good to have someone you can count on.
” My pulse still pounds in my ears as I try to think of what to say to this kid who makes my heart burst just looking at him.
He stares at his knees, tears dripping onto his pajamas, and I realize I’ll never forgive myself for not being enough to keep him from breaking like this.
I’m about to ask if I can get him water or a blanket or literally anything, but then footsteps creak up the stairs, soft at first, then more urgent.
Zoe rounds the corner, her face wild with worry, and freezes when she sees us huddled in the closet.
All three of us just look at each other, me with my knuckles tucked under my knees, Eli clutching his toy like a lifeline, and Zoe, beautiful and terrified, clutching her phone in both hands as if she was about to call 911.
“Oh no,” she whispers. “What happened?”
Eli doesn’t answer, just keeps rocking, but his eyes flick up to her.
I clear my throat, raw and dry. “He had a nightmare.”
Zoe’s expression crumbles. She’s already exhausted: she’s spent all her extra time this week helping Maddie who got dumped by Hunter last Sunday. Something about how the writing was on the wall because of a soft scented candle as a parting gift. I have no idea, but Maddie sounds next-level quirky.
Zoe kneels, one hand splayed on the carpet. “Can I come in too?” Her voice is so gentle, I want to sob.
Eli nods, and Zoe squeezes her way in, maneuvering her limbs so she lands on the opposite side of Eli from me. She doesn’t touch him, just sits close enough that he knows she’s there, anchoring him between us.
Our knees almost touch in the tiny space.
Zoe meets my eyes over Eli’s head, her concern sharpening her features.
This is more than a run-of-the-mill bad dream—and I know what set him off.
Earlier today, we finally got Rosie’s box of things in the mail, and he and I went through it together.
He seemed okay at the time, but I guess not.
Maybe I fucked up letting him go through it, and the guilt gnaws a new hole in my chest. Zoe’s eyes flick away, and I’m sure she’s thinking the same thing.
We sit in silence for a while, the only sound being Eli’s gradually steadying breaths. I don’t know how long we stay like this—me and Zoe on the floor; him huddled in the corner—but eventually, his eyes begin to droop despite his obvious efforts to stay awake.
“We’re not going anywhere,” I promise him. “It’s okay to sleep.”
He looks at me. “You’ll both stay?”
“Right here. All night if you need us to.”
He nods, his body finally relaxing. I watch as he fights against sleep, then gradually succumbs, his breathing evening out, his grip on Flash loosening just a fraction.
Once he’s asleep, Zoe and I stay put, backs against the closet wall, legs cramped in the small space. I promised we wouldn’t leave. So we watch over my son as he sleeps, and I’m wondering how I’m supposed to heal wounds this deep when I can barely figure out what to feed him for breakfast.
Tomorrow, I’ll call the therapist because I’m in way over my head here. I need strategies, and someone who actually knows what they’re doing.
But tonight, like every day, I just need to be here. In a closet, on the floor, with Zoe, watching my son sleep. It’s not nearly enough, but it’s all I have to give right now.
I close my eyes, not to sleep but to offer a silent plea to whoever might be listening—to Rosie, to the universe, to that God Eli asked me about. To help me be what he needs. Help me get this right. Help me be a father worthy of this kid who’s already lost too much.
Eli shifts in his sleep, clutching Flash closer. I open my eyes to watch him, this miracle I didn’t know existed until just over two weeks ago, this person who carries half my DNA but all of my heart now.
“I’m here,” I mutter, though he can’t hear me. “I’m not leaving.”
“Me neither,” Zoe whispers.
Of course she’ll stay—that’s who she is.
What a day.
Exhausted after last night, I worked all afternoon with a trainer, one-on-one, just running drills. I’m home now, my body feels good, and my anger’s tamed.
But my dick, on the other hand…
It’s in a league of its own.
I’d like to blame testosterone, but the truth is, it’s her. It’s always her.
Zoe Lane.
Two mind-blowing kisses, and it’s like she’s in my bloodstream, under my skin.
They’re all I can think about as she floats around the kitchen in a clingy tank top and sleep shorts, or sometimes she’s in jeans so tight I have to reroute my brain to remember basic math.
She bends over in the fridge looking for coffee creamer, and suddenly my entire existence is a highlight reel of her curves and the way her hair brushes against the counter.
Every day since the pantry a week ago, I do the right thing. I keep my hands to myself. I respect boundaries. I act like a goddamn monk while I’m actually losing my mind.
Every morning, my balls ache so much I’m one stretch away from calling in a medical consult.
Cold showers? Daily. I might as well throw out the hot water heater and go full Siberian training camp.
So here I am, standing under glacial spray, my dick so hard it could cut glass. One hand on the tile, the other around myself. Thick and already leaking, angry-red at the tip. Like it’s about to detonate if I so much as think about her smile.
Of course, I think about her smile.
That’s the problem.