Chapter 38
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
PRESENT DAY
I follow Will back to his place. He’s still in a daze as we make our way inside, and I’m not sure how to comfort him. I’m not even sure if I can. My chest is tight, my full body aching with worry I don’t know how to share. A weight I want to carry alone.
He disappears down the hall, and I run myself a bath. I sink into the water until it touches my chin, refusing to blink even as my eyes dry out and my vision goes blurry. I’m perfectly still in the steam. The warm water does nothing to thaw the ice in my chest.
Later, in the kitchen, the apartment is still quiet. I make us both avocado toast and eat mine alone. As the minutes tick by and he still hasn’t come out, I take his plate and approach his bedroom cautiously.
When he doesn’t answer my knock, I ease the door open. “Will?”
Maybe he’s asleep.
Instead, I find him in bed, still dressed and staring blankly into space. His shoulders are tense, jaw tight, eyes unfocused. I step into the room, the weight of his terror palpable.
I move forward with quiet steps around the shoes he kicked off haphazardly and sink onto the cool concrete floor next to his bed, running my palm gently over his arm. His eyes flick to mine.
“Are you hungry? I made toast.”
One side of his mouth draws in like he’s trying to smile, but it’s too much effort. His face falls flat again. “So, I guess this is what it takes for you to cook for me.”
The joke catches me by surprise. The old Will is still in there somewhere. A tiny flicker of the boy I know beneath this pain.
“Don’t get used to it.” I try to tease him back, but my tone is delicate. We’re porcelain I’m afraid I’ll shatter.
I don’t know how to be with this version of Will. We aren’t raw and exposed. We are buttoned up. Armored from every angle.
He sits up and takes the plate, biting into a slice of toast like it hurts his jaw to do so. His movements are so slow and careful. His tongue runs over the spot of avocado on his lip.
Everything feels fragile now, propped up against a reality that could collapse at any second.
A single phone call, and everything will be different.
I’ll lose him.
In minutes, his two slices of toast are gone.
“Can I make you something else?”
He shakes his head, his eyes soft as they watch me. “You don’t have to take care of me, you know? You should get some sleep.”
“I’m fine. It’s just toast.” I stand, taking his plate. “Let me know if you need anything, okay?”
His nod is small as he lies back down. I turn, moving across the room, but just as I reach the door, I hear his voice.
“Hey.”
I stop.
“I need something.”
I look back. His eyes wait for mine, heavy and defenseless.
He lifts his arm, reaching across the mattress. His hand extends, fingers outstretched, into the empty space between us. “Stay.”
Something cracks in my chest, splits open.
Against every part of my better judgment, I cross the space separating us and slip into his bed. Into his arms. The mattress dips under the shared weight of our exhaustion.
He wraps me in his blanket, in him, and tucks his chin against the top of my head. Within seconds, his breathing evens out, brushing against my hair. I focus on the rhythm of it with all I can.
His arms tighten around me slightly, enough that I feel nothing but him. My cheek rests against his chest, and I can hear his steady heartbeat under my ear.
Minutes pass, and everything else starts to fade away. We’re safe here in our cocoon. His thumb brushes small, absent-minded circles over my shoulder blade, and my hand drifts over his side, hugging myself tighter against him.
We’ve never been good with words, but our bodies say what we cannot. Grief. Worry. Relief. A painful tenderness that I still can’t put a name to. Something reserved only for Will.
He strokes my back, and I nuzzle my face into his neck, breathing in the familiar scent—cool, deep, dangerous. Ocean and driftwood I’m desperately clinging to. My eyes grow heavy.
The rise and fall of his chest steadily slows, a quiet reassurance amid chaos. Every exhale I make is mirrored in him, each tiny brush of fingers a quiet conversation.
We are here. We are breathing. For now, we are safe.
Minutes later, I’m falling asleep too. We cling to each other like we’re tethering ourselves to this moment in time, treading water in the dark and terrified that when we wake, everything will be different.