9. Winter
NINE
WINTER
T ransport from the hospital to the 767 is smooth, even though the tension in my stomach is anything but.
My OCD and anxiety have morphed over the past week. Before all this, I’d been relying on my rituals less and less, sometimes going through parts of the day without completing them. But since leaving Adam, I’ve been in a weird in-between state where my anxiety simmers beneath my skin but as if it’s behind a glass window. I see that it’s there, but I don’t feel it.
What a curious way to put it: Leaving Adam.
Everything feels bright and sharp. I don’t know what the solution is, but completing rituals feels like it calms the anxiety spiral a little bit. The dulling effects of the narcotics and fast-acting anti-anxiety meds the doctors prescribed also help.
I don’t know what to do with myself. I’m both in my body and very far away from it.
So I slip on the rituals like a worn coat.
North Carolina is a beautiful state, but I pray to never, ever return to it .
“Mrs.Brigham, we will take off in just a few moments. Can I get you refreshments before we do?” The blonde flight attendant wears a cool, professional mask, and her question is simple. So when I snap at her, I feel a little guilty.
“I am not Mrs.Brigham.” The sharp movement causes my injured eye socket to throb. I didn’t need surgery, thankfully, but the doctors said I needed to rest the muscles around my eye to prevent the non-displaced hairline fracture from becoming displaced.
Even though my jaw felt broken, I got away with only soft tissue damage.
The flight attendant raises an eyebrow at my words. “Oh?”
My head jerks back at her tone and the look of...relief? on her face. Hunter steps up to our seats after conferring with the pilots.
“Excuse me, Jami,” he says. His eyes fix on me when he moves around her.
“Do not call me Mrs. Brigham,” I repeat. This time, with a glance at Hunter, Jami looks flustered.
“I-I’m so sorry, ma’am, it said—on the manifest it—” She looks helplessly at Hunter, and a nugget of...something settles in my brain. I shove it away.
“Bring a whiskey for me and a sweet tea for Winter.” Hunter’s words are short, flat. I’ve never heard him speak to someone like that. Jami spins on her heel to hightail it back to the galley.
“Hunter, I get why you called me Mrs.Brigham while in the hospital, but I need you to stop telling people I’m your wife.”
He kisses the back of my hand. “Put your seat belt on, baby.” I stare at him, open-mouthed, for several heartbeats. Well, as open-mouthed as I can be with all the swelling.
Ba-dum. Hunter keeps referring to me as his wife.
Ba-dum. I love that so much .
Ba-dum. I hate that so much.
Ba-dum. Because I don’t know why he’s doing this.
It’s too much. “H, I’m serious. Stop having people call me that.”
He looks in my direction, searching my face. As if his muscles are reluctant to perform the action, he nods.
“I need the words, Hunter.”
I know that he’ll manipulate this conversation if he has his way.
But he’s saved by Jami’s return with our drinks. “Is there anything I can get for you, Mr.Brigham?” Twin pink spots settle high on her cheeks.
“No. Thanks.”
Jami leaves, and a confusing whirl of emotions bubbles to the surface of my psyche.
“What was that, Hunter?” I ask with a low tone.
“What?” he asks with a confused look on his face.
“The flight attendant,” I say. “What’s her deal?”
Hunter lifts his whiskey to his mouth.
I want to press, but the jet chooses that moment to start taxiing down the runway.
A wave of panic hits me, my throat closing and my vision narrowing. The reality that this is my first time flying since my parents’ death hits me in the face.
All of a sudden, this— this —sends me over the edge.
I catalog all the senses around me: Three things I can see. Three things I can hear. Three things I can feel.
What can I see? I see, I see, I— What can I hear? The whirring—the engines. I?—
Hunter grabs my hand, lacing his fingers between mine. And as much as I want to pull away, I don’t. The press of his palm is the only thing keeping me in this seat.
We reach cruising altitude, and without a warning, Hunter turns to me and says, “Let’s go. ”
I still hold Hunter’s hand. I start to pull away, but he tightens his grasp. Nothing about it is painful.
I don’t ask him where we’re going because, obviously, we can go only a few places on the airplane. He guides me through the aisle toward a pocket door near the back of the plane.
We slide into the main bedroom on the 767.
He starts to undress.
“H, what are you—what is…?” I’m stammering and stuttering, and I feel like the walls are closing in. I hate this feeling. I love his body. But right now? I cannot look at it.
He pauses with his shirt open and his hand on the button of his jeans. “We have an hour before we land in D.C., and I can barely keep my eyes open. I figured we could sleep together.”
At the look I must be giving him, he quickly adds, “To sleep, Sunbeam. Sleeping only.”
I feel myself nodding over and over, way more than necessary.
He gives me a sad half-smile and then buttons his shirt back up. Once he’s fully clothed again, he pulls back the comforter.
“Please rest with me, baby,” he says. He looks earnest.
I force my muscles to unlock, and I crawl into the bed. The soft mattress feels like a cloud compared to the hard, sterile bedding in the hospital. I block out the sensations of what my sleeping arrangements felt like while with Adam.
Block it out. Block it out. Block it out.
Hunter climbs beside me, keeping at least half a foot between our bodies. I count each square on the fabric-covered ceiling panels. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his profile—his locked gaze fixed on the area above us.
Does it count as the mile-high club if you only sleep with someone on a plane ?
As I settle into the bed, I release a puff of air, a facsimile of a laugh.
I am safe. I am safe here. I am safe here with Hunter.
“What’s going through your mind?” His voice is soft, barely a whisper over the muted hum of the plane engines.
“I was thinking about what I’d imagined my first time on your plane would be like,” I reply just as softly.
“What did you think it’d be like?”
I release a puff of air again.
“I thought it would be a happy time,” I say. He doesn’t respond.
I’d hoped the first time I’d fly on Hunter’s plane would be an adventure. On the phone one night, I told him of my dream to go back to Paris and experience it as an adult.
“What do you find so attractive about Paris, Sunbeam? Most people who visit realize it’s filthy and smelly and not at all like that Netflix show.”
I laugh at him. “I’m not expecting to grab a baguette and put it in the front basket of my bicycle. Paris is the city of love, you know? It’s the icon of romance.”
He’s silent over the line. “Let’s go for Valentine’s Day,” he says.
“Valentine’s Day? First, that’s months from now.”
“So? You think you’ll be done with me after a few months?” It’s a rhetorical question, but everything in my body screams, I’ll never be done with you , Hunter Brigham .
I don’t respond. “Two, we can’t just go off gallivanting to Europe. I’ll have schoolwork most likely, and ? —”
“We’ll take my jet to and from, which cuts down on ninety percent of all travel headaches.”
I pause at his statement. “You own a jet? Why am I not surprised you own a jet? Of course, you own a jet.”
His laughter cuts me off. “It’s more Leo’s jet than mine, but I use it whenever I want because, technically, BwP owns it. And I want to take you to Paris and do it on the most romantic day on the calendar. I want to eat French pastries with you and get the helicopter to fly us around the Eiffel Tower.”
I choke up. “I’d really like that, H,” I tell him. I can feel his smile on the other end of the line .
The feeling of Hunter’s finger grazing the side of my hand brings me back to the plane.
“Tending the rose garden with my mom as a kid. Kissing you there,” Hunter says.
“What?” I turn my head toward his.
“Going to the Eastern Market and seeing your face light up as you talked to the shopkeeper about crystals,” he adds.
“What are you talking about?” He turns his head to look at me. Our eyes clash, and I see a tangle of sadness and comfort in his gaze.
“Waking up in your apartment with the sun blazing through the windows and you in my arms. Making pizza with August. Watching you two play video games.”
“H,” I say. My breath stutters in my chest.
“These are happy moments for me. Some of the best, happiest moments I’ve had in my entire life.” The side of his mouth quirks up. “Tell me some,” he says.
“Tell you some of my happy moments?” I reply. He nods.
“Okay.” I close my eyes. “Riding bikes with my mom and dad along the river. Paintball with August.” I swallow again. His eyes don’t waver from mine.
“Keep going,” he says.
“Going out with Kitty for the first time alone. Moving into my apartment.” A sob breaks through my restricted throat, and tears leak from my eyes and race to the pillow beneath my head.
“Tell me more, baby.” Hunter’s hand is all the way on top of mine now, and his thumb rubs the side of my wrist.
“Our all-day date. Our first kiss. Every time we’ve made love.” I sob, and he launches his body up, pulling me into his arms and rocking me from side to side .
“We’re going to make new happy memories together, Winter. I promise. I promise.”
I clutch his shirt and sob, wanting so desperately to believe him.
When we arrive back at Amelia Manor, I don’t fight him on the added security or that we’re going to his home. If I’m honest with myself, I want nothing more than to be here, in his arms. I don’t know if there’s another place I’d feel safer on this planet.
“We need to talk about a few things,” Hunter says.
I lay in Hunter’s bed after taking a long bath. Hunter wanted to help me, but I declined. I didn’t want him to see my body—to see the new scars Adam left behind.
When I got out of the tub, I stood in front of the mirror and looked at the crude apple he’d carved into my skin. I wanted to throw up. I wanted to core it out of my flesh.
I did neither; I cried.
I’m so fucking tired of crying.
“There are a few things we need to do to move forward.”
I’m immediately wary. “Like what, H?”
He leans against the side table, his hands clutching the surface behind him as he reclines.
“First, I need to know how he died.”
My shoulders rise to my ears, and I cross my arms in a protective pose.
“He’s dead. Isn’t that what matters the most?”
He stares at me for a hard second. “Yes, that is ultimately what matters most. But I need to know how just in case someone asks questions.”
“Who would be asking questions, H?” He sighs heavily.
“Please just tell me, Winter.” Winter. Not baby. Not Sunbeam. His use of my given name impacts me more than I feel it should.
I feel untethered.
“Okay.” I inhale. I exhale. I retell the moments leading up to Adam’s death. How the Universe gave me that razor blade and how I sliced his throat, but it wasn’t enough. I told him about being naked and falling over the railing into the snow. I told him how I stabbed him to death.
“Is it...” I cut myself off.
“Is it what, baby?” His voice is hoarse and short. His muscles bunch as he leans further against the table. He’s affected. He’s angry.
“Is it bad that I’m overjoyed that he’s dead? That I’m thrilled that I was the one to end his fucking life? Does that make me a monster?” I whisper the last sentence. I feel like I’m vibrating. A part of my brain reawakens, the taste of adrenaline as I stabbed him over and over again sharp on my tongue.
“No, it doesn’t make you a monster,” Hunter says. “But if it does, that means I’m the motherfucking devil.” He walks over to me and kisses me on the forehead. It’s rough and hard as he clutches the back of my head, bringing my face to his lips. I close my eyes, breathing in his scent.
“We’ve dealt with him,” he says.
I don’t question what “dealt with” means.
“Thank you,” I say through numb lips.
“And the second thing,” he says, walking back to the door.
When he opens it and sticks his head out of the opening, I say, “What are you doing, H?”
But then I hear the tap-tap-tap I’ve become so familiar with, and I didn’t realize I’ve been missing.
“He’s really missed you, but I think we’ve become buddies now,” Hunter says as Kitty bounds into the room.
“ Kitty!” I say, flinging my arms wide and sitting up more. He jumps onto the bed, tackling me. I hold him close, burying my face in his fur.
It’s not that I haven’t thought about my dog. It’s that if I thought about him and stuck with the thought that he was starving or harmed or anything terrible, I would have spiraled. I can’t break. I won’t break.
“There are a few people who want to see you. Ella, Veronica,” he says, trailing off. I don’t move my face from Kitty’s fur.
When I’m silent for too long, he says, “Do you want to see them?”
No.No, I don’t want to see anyone.
Instead, I say, “Do I have to?”
A sad look crosses his face. “No, you don’t.” He fidgets for several moments at the door before saying, “Are you okay with seeing me?” The level of vulnerability in his tone almost undoes me.
And I struggle to answer because he’s the only person I want to see.
But also, a large part of me is hesitant to be around anyone.
I’m a confused, confusing mess.
“I’m just tired right now,” I reply.
He nods. “I understand.”
He stares at me hard and is silent long enough for me to say, “What?”
His face takes on a cast that I’ve not seen him use before. He stands up taller, bracing his muscular legs apart. Domineering. Serious.
“What is it?” I say slowly, warily.
“I’m fitting you for a permanent tracker.”
I blink at him. “A what now?”
His face becomes even more severe, unwavering. “A permanent tracker. It will go under your skin, likely on your shoulder blade or hip. It’s no bigger than a grain of rice. ”
My mouth hangs open.
“Is that—how is that even possible?” I ask.
“The tech is new. Top secret, actually, but—” My eyes drop to the hand at his side as he picks at the skin around the nail bed of his thumb with his index finger. “I know people,” he finishes.
“There you go, sounding like you’re in the mob again.”
His face remains resolute.
“H,” I say. I clear my throat. “I’m trying to be rational about this?—”
“Rational? There’s no rational or irrational in this situation. You’re getting the tracker.” We’re in a stare-off.
It’s not that I don’t understand that our lives are risky, and it’s obvious that it would have been optimal if I could have been located sooner. But the high-handed way he demands my acquiescence drains my already decimated well of patience.
“And if I say no ? Will you force me, H?”
He jolts at the question, and we’re close enough that I notice when the muscle in his jaw ticks.
The temperature in the room drops several degrees, and I don’t know if it’s from a rush of anxiety or the heaviness of his stare.
As he continues to gaze at me as if he is looking through me and into my soul, I clutch Kitty tighter to my chest.
“Do you understand what it did to me not to know where you were?”
Kitty’s panting is the only sound in the room for several seconds after Hunter’s raw statement.
He walks closer to me, his arms still crossed as if to prevent himself from touching me. “Do you know what it did to me to know I could have done this long ago, but I didn’t want to push you? That I let you roam free even though I knew people might try to get at you?”
“H— ”
“No, Winter.” He hovers over me, his face so close to mine that I can see the whorls of gold in his blue eyes. “My heart was ripped out of my chest the moment I found out you were gone. I died over and over as every hour passed without knowing where you were. If you were suffering?—”
He steps back and spins, walking to the side table. He doesn’t turn around to look at me.
I cover my mouth to prevent the wail I know that’s bubbling up from escaping. I fold my body into itself, literally holding my insides together. In my silent struggle, Hunter leans against the table, his head hanging low.
The low breath he releases shudders, and his anguish is palpable.
My tears race, one after the other.
“What happened here will never happen again. I’d have to be dead and gone for anyone to be able to touch you, and even then, I’ll protect you from the grave.”
He turns back to me with wild, glassy eyes. “Do you understand, Winter?”
I close my eyes against the force of his intensity.
“Yes. I understand, Hunter.” I open my eyes again in time to see him run his fingers through his lush, ebony locks.
“Good,” he replies. He doesn’t look at me. “Get some rest, baby. I’ll tell Ella and Veronica to come by another day,” he murmurs. And then he’s out the door.
Kitty huffs, settling deeper into my side. I know Hunter suffered while I was missing.
How could he not?
It’s been a struggle to look outside of my own pain, my own world of suffering. And maybe it’s selfish, but I don’t care. I want to stay locked in my world of grief. Maybe one day I can leave it.
Today is not that day.
I’m fragile. I’m hurt. I’m not removed enough from this situation to carry Hunter’s or anyone else’s needs .
I can’t hold his pain and mine too.
I rub Kitty’s velvety ear.
I have to look out for myself.
With that thought, I settle down into the pillows that smell like Hunter and sleep deeply for the first time in almost a week.