Chapter 18
Drew
A
t some point, I’m not exactly sure when or if it was happening so slowly I couldn’t tell it was happening, I melt into Emmett, his embrace, his warmth, his presence, as we sit on the couch. My head found the place between his chin and his shoulder, and the hand holding his found his chest. Both of his arms were around me, pulling me into him.
Captain America ended sometime between my toaster popping and him coming up here, but the quietness surrounding me is tolerable when he was around.
I feel… Safe.
I let myself sink into the moment, letting my eyes wander his forearms uncovered by his short-sleeved shirt, captivated by the intricate lines and shading, alluring canvases of black ink.
Without warning, my body, so overwhelmed with fatigue, relentlessly relaxes, my eyes falling shut before I can protest.
Hours later, the sunshine invades my bedroom through the uncovered window begging my eyes to open. The brightness is intense due to the reflection bouncing off the brand new snow mounds lining the streets. The clouds are scarce revealing the light blue sky after a few days of gray, swollen clouds.
It must have snowed all night, ceasing sometime early this morning.
Wait, morning?
Is it the morning?
Is it tomorrow?
I sit straight up and look around to see I’m in my bed but don’t remember getting here. My apartment is empty, the living room TV on at a low volume, the lights off.
When did I fall asleep?
I rack my brain, trying to remember what led me here, and the series of events that unfolded yesterday morning come back to me.
Holy shit.
Emmett.
Last thing I remember, we were on the couch, but I must have fallen asleep. But, that doesn’t explain how I slept until tomorrow. I got out of bed at 8 AM yesterday, and Emmett must have come up an hour or so after that.
When he heard me fall to the ground.
When he found me frozen to the floor.
When he helped me to the couch.
I don’t know how long we were there, but there’s no way I actually slept until tomorrow.
I glance at my bedside table to see my phone on the charger.
Did I put it there?
Either way, I check the time–8 AM.
Holy shit. Again.
I slept until tomorrow.
I’m still in the pajamas I woke up in yesterday, but I don’t remember walking to my bed. I don’t remember anything past my head slowly falling on to Emmett’s chest. I must have fallen asleep. How embarrassing. Emmett must have carried me to bed where I slept almost 24 hours.
24 hours without a single nightmare.
24 hours where my body sunk into my bed.
24 hours undisturbed by my mind.
24 hours of rest.
I was running on empty because there is no other way I would be able to sleep so hard for so long.
I make my way to the bathroom to brush my teeth, shower, and get dressed in clothes other than pajamas or lounge wear. I put some coffee on and take a seat on my couch while I wait for it to brew. A woodsy, vanilla smell still lingering on the cushions.
Emmett, this gruff, angst-y guy, dressed all in black with tattoos and a permanent scowl. Every time we were in the elevator together, I was left thinking how he couldn’t get away from me fast enough.
Now, I’m left thinking how he showed me a side of him yesterday that was patient and protective.
And it definitely was not patience or protectiveness I experienced from him before.
Ever.
These had to be traits he learned through his own experiences, through his own hardships, maybe even through his own trauma.
He knew what to say.
He knew what to do.
He was there.
My stomach growls, pulling my attention from Emmett back to reality. Proud of myself for waking up with an appetite, I throw a frozen pizza into the oven, but instead of setting the timer, I make a mental note of the time–8:30 AM. Not the best breakfast choice. But at least it’s better than grabbing the last Pop-Tart package.
Time to eat something a little more substantial, even if it’s not the most nutritious.
I walk into the living room to turn up the volume of the TV a little more, so the voices of Nick, Jess, Schmidt, and Winston are loud enough to make out what they are saying, rather than just a mumble in the background.
Emmett must have seen the show in my “recently watched” because I know it wasn’t on when Emmett was here. The episode has about ten minutes left, so I tell myself to check the pizza when it ends.
As I watch, knowing almost every line, my thoughts begin to wonder about yesterday. Is it normal to have the reaction to the toaster that I did? Probably not. Is it healthy to be too afraid of my reaction to set a timer on the oven? Again, probably not. Should I be keeping myself awake long enough to the point I pass out on my neighbor and sleep 24 hours? Once again, probably not.
When the next episode begins to queue up, I check the pizza and see it could use a few more minutes, but when I open the oven, I get blast with the smell of baking crust, melted cheese, and a slight scent of oregano. I don’t have the patience to wait because my stomach is eating itself. I grab an oven mitt to pull it out, not being able to wait for the edges to crisp up.
I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I went to grab another slice of pizza to find that I had already finished the whole thing.
Now, I’m back on my couch, reading a book (that I double-checked was not part of a series) that isn’t piquing my interest as much as other books I’ve read this past week, The sun is high now, telling me it’s the afternoon, and I hear my phone buzz for the first time in a few hours.
Thinking it is likely one of my parents texting me with the intent of making themselves feel better, I pick it up to clear the notification.
But, to my surprise, I see it’s from Emmett.
Wait, I don’t have his number, I think to myself.
I look to see a past message, dated to yesterday, sent from me to him.
All it says is Drew.
He must have texted himself to have my number, and I’m not sure if I should be flattered or frightened… What I do know is I am definitely flustered at the fact that our relationship of neighbors who butt heads and who only recently saw each other outside of the apartment elevator has escalated to the point where we have each other’s number. I find myself smiling with anticipation as I look at the message from today. Hey, it’s Emmett. Hope you got some good sleep. How are you feeling?
There he goes again, saying the right things and asking the right questions. I realize, after re-reading the text once more, that the difference between Emmett and Reed, or Emmett and Lacey, or Emmett and my parents is that Emmett, even practically being a stranger, has never once told me I’m okay. Or told me I’m fine.
I know they all mean well, but they don’t know. They don’t understand what it means to be okay after going through something only fit for nightmares. The word has a completely different meaning to me now.
Yes, I’m lucky to be alive.
Yes, I’m lucky to have gotten out of there unharmed, but living through a trauma doesn’t make me feel okay or fine or lucky.
It makes me feel infuriated.
It makes me feel helpless.
It makes me feel broken.
But no one has asked me how I am. No one has asked me how I’m feeling.
No one besides Emmett.