Chapter 21
Rhiannon
Ijolt awake mid-dream, lungs heaving, heart racing like it’s late for something. It takes a moment for me to orient myself in the darkness.
It’s quiet. Maybe the stupid itching in my leg from the jellyfish sting pulled me awake.
Maybe I had a nightmare. Is there anything more obnoxious than the human consciousness?
Here are a bunch of thoughts that aren’t real, to scare the fuck out of you, and wake you up from the perfect night’s sleep?
No. There isn’t.
Satisfied my brain was simply playing tricks, I turn on my side, facing Robert.
It feels like something shifted between us today while we were out on the boat.
The panic on his face as he launched himself over the side like a lifeguard in that old TV series, Baywatch, was almost comical.
And the concern etched into his features as he treated my sting was almost reverential.
I’m about to reach out and pull the sheets up over his body, when he lets out a tortured, muffled moan, so low and guttural it chills my blood in my veins.
Maybe this is what woke me up.
His beautiful, formerly peaceful face is twisted in agony as his arms and legs thrash on the bed.
He’s mumbling, but the words are too obscure for me to make out.
The sound he makes isn’t human—it’s a choked, animal noise that raises the hairs on my arms. Sheets snap and twist beneath his legs like they’re trying to restrain him.
My body stills, panic clenching my muscles and a helplessness I dislike intently spreads through me because unlike Robert with the jellyfish this morning, I don’t know what to do to help him.
Do I wake him?
Fuck.
I lie there, unable to look away, but the more I watch his pain, the more my stomach sours. I need to help him somehow. I fumble for my phone, thumb shaking, searching what to do when someone’s trapped in a nightmare.
My stomach sinks. Touching someone in a night terror can be disorienting or even dangerous. The sleeping person might lash out instinctively, not realizing where they are. As much as I can take a hit on the rugby pitch, I think Robert would hate himself forever if he hurt me in his sleep.
The internet tells me to talk to him in calm, low tones, so I try variations of, “Robert, you’re safe. You’re here. It’s Rhiannon.”
When that doesn’t work, it encourages light touch on his forearm, but from a distance, and not touching his face or chest. His fists are clenched like he’s holding a weapon or ready to fight.
I can’t ask him, however. The article I’m reading says when he wakes up, I shouldn’t press him for details. I need to let him orient himself, breathe, drink water, come back to baseline before I ask or even try to comfort him.
Sweat beads across his forehead and upper lip as he writhes and twists in the sheets. When he’s awake, he’s all sharp edges and control… until the moment he isn’t.
My hand twitches toward him before my brain catches up with what my phone just told me—not to touch. The urge to fix it, to fix him, burns behind my ribs. He’s in so much pain.
His choked breathing strikes at my core, and after a full two minutes of trying to coax him out of his nightmare, his eyes snap open, revealing a terror I can’t imagine feeling.
He’s disorientated, but the flash of fear in his eyes slides behind a carefully positioned mask, and my heart splinters. He doesn’t want to be seen. He’s well practiced at hiding this part of himself from people.
His eyes meet mine, and if the light was on, I bet he’d be blushing. I should have been better prepared before I woke him, but I need some supplies. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”
He doesn’t react or answer as I slip out of the expensive sheets, reach for a facecloth, wet it, and grab a bottle of water.
When I get back to his side of the bed, the bedside lamp has been turned on, and Robert is clutching his head in his hands with his back against the headboard.
As though sensing my presence, he peers at me over the tips of his fingertips.
“I’m sorry. It’s been so long, I thought…
I thought we were safe.” His tone is dripping in embarrassment, shame, and that splinter in my heart becomes a fissure.
“It’s okay.” I gesture at the bed. “Can I sit?”
He nods, looking at what I’m holding in my hands. I open the bottle of water and hand it to him. “Small sips.” He looks like a man carved down to the smallest version of himself, as if taking up less space will make him less seen.
His lips twitch like I’m teaching my granny to suck eggs, but he does as I suggest. “Do you mind if I touch you?” I gesture the cool washcloth to his face. The beads of sweat are trickling down his temples and nose. I bet that shirt is stuck to him, too.
He holds out a trembling hand to take the cloth from me. “You don’t have to do that. I can do it myself.”
I don’t give it to him. In fact, I take his hand and move it to his thigh. “I’d like to, as long as you’re okay with me touching you.”
He bites the inside of his cheek; a war being waged in his soulful eyes before he gives in and nods.
As I pat his forehead and the rest of his face and neck, he tips his head back against the headboard, letting out a labored sigh. “I suppose you want an explanation.” His resigned voice does nothing to heal the ache in my chest.
His skin is hot, feverish, salt slick. I can feel the tremor in his pulse through the fabric.
“No, Robert. I don’t.”
He seems to be taking some comfort from my dabbing at his skin with the damp cloth, so I keep going. “If you need to talk or want to get something off your chest, I’ll listen. But I won’t push you to talk about this piece of you with someone you barely know.”
He studies me in the dim light. “If you’re going to lie in bed beside me, I feel like you should be aware of what you’re lying beside.” A dark smile passes across his face. “You should get hazard pay for sleeping next to me.”
“I’ve had worse teammates.”
He tells me about his time in the Middle East, how he has PTSD from his experiences there, and how an article he published for his paper resulted in a local translator being killed. His words are slow, labored with years of guilt and grief even though it feels like he’s told this story before.
It’s sanitized, rehearsed, controlled.
I listen to him, holding his hand while he speaks in a vain effort to ground him, to help him manage his crisis. While listening to him talk, it strikes me odd that this culturally rich and well-traveled man now works in sports.
He heaves out a sigh, indicating his story time has come to an end.
“Robert?”
“Hm?”
“Why did you choose sports journalism?”
His eyes lock onto mine like missiles, filled with the depths of raw pain I can only imagine in my worst nightmares. “Because no one dies when I screw up.” His stare turns expectant. Like he’s waiting for me to flee, or scream at him, or react in a way that makes him the villain of the story.
But it strikes me that there’s nothing I can say or do to him that is worse than what he puts himself through in his own mind. “People who get close to me end up collateral damage.”
It’s such a simple statement, but it lands as a strike to my solar plexus, stealing the oxygen from my lungs. For the first time, I don’t see the arrogant, guarded journalist. I see the man still clawing his way out of the wreckage.