Chapter Seven #2
"Everything ache." He didn't look up. "My shoulder, my head, my stomach. Even my teeth hurt."
I crossed to the bed and sat beside him, careful to leave space between us. "That'll pass. Your body's adjusting."
"How do you know so much about this?" He finally looked up, eyes red. "Vincent said you weren't trained for this."
"I'm not. Not officially." I picked at a loose thread on the quilt. "My dad... he had his own issues with pills after a work injury. Before he died. I was young, but I remember what it looked like."
Cord's expression shifted, some of the defensive anger draining out. "I'm sorry."
"It was a long time ago." I shrugged. "But I remember how he'd get when he was trying to cut back. The sweating, the irritability, the way he couldn't sit still."
"So you're saying I remind you of your addict father. Great."
"I'm saying I've seen this before, and I know it passes." I met his eyes. "And my dad wasn't an addict. He was hurt and scared and using what was available to cope. Same as you."
Cord was quiet for a beat, then stood and moved to the small window. Night had taken over completely, turning the glass into a dark mirror. "I don't know how to do this, Dusty. How to just... sit with everything I'm feeling."
"You don't have to figure it out all at once."
"But I do. Because in a couple of weeks, you're leaving for Marfa, and I need to get my shit together before then so I can—" He stopped, jaw working. "So I can make decisions about my actual life."
The reminder of my departure sat heavy between us. Three weeks. Less than that now. The gallery opening, the new life I'd been planning for seven years. Should've been exciting, but standing in this dim bedroom with Cord looking lost and exhausted, it just felt... complicated.
"One thing at a time," I said. "Right now, let's just focus on getting through tonight."
He turned from the window, and in the shadows I could see how exhausted he was, etched into every line of his face. "What does getting through tonight look like?"
"Honestly? Probably not sleeping much. Maybe some breathing exercises when the anxiety gets bad. Trying to rest even if you can't actually sleep."
"Sounds miserable."
"Probably will be." I stood, moving toward the door. "I'll set up on the couch so you can have space—"
"Don't." The word came out fast, almost desperate. Then, quieter: "I mean... I'd feel better if you were close by. In case..."
He didn't finish, but I got it. In case the panic got too bad. In case he needed someone to remind him this was temporary, that he wasn't alone in it.
"Okay," I said. "Let me grab my stuff."
The bedroom was exactly what you'd expect from a fishing cabin, with wood paneling, one small window, and a bed that took up most of the floor space. The quilt looked handmade, all blues and greens like someone had tried to capture water in fabric.
We got ready for bed without much talking, taking turns in the tiny bathroom where the water pressure was more of a suggestion than reality.
When Cord came out wearing just sweatpants, torso bare except for the shoulder brace, I focused hard on arranging my pillow and not noticing the defined muscles of his abdomen.
Professional. This was professional. Just helping a friend through a rough patch.
When we climbed into bed, the mattress dipped in the middle, rolling us closer than I'd planned for. Our shoulders touched, and Cord went rigid beside me.
"Sorry," I mumbled, trying to keep some distance without falling off the edge. "The mattress is pretty shot."
"It's fine." His voice sounded tight. "Not like we haven't been closer."
True, but this was different. More intimate somehow than the sex at The Ranch had been. This was just lying next to each other in the dark, no script, no clear endpoint.
I turned on my side, facing away from him, trying to give him what space the small bed allowed. The cabin was quiet except for the distant sound of the creek and the occasional pop of the old wood settling. Beside me, I could hear Cord's breathing—too fast, too shallow.
"You need to breathe slower," I said into the darkness. "Four counts in, hold for four, out for six. Remember?"
"I remember." But his breathing didn't change. "It's not working."
"It takes practice. Just try."
I heard him shift, felt the bed move as he adjusted. Then, slowly, his breathing started to even out. Not all the way to calm, but steadier than before.
We lay there in silence for what felt like hours but was probably only twenty minutes. Just when I thought he might be drifting off, he spoke.
"Dusty?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for doing this. Even though I've been an asshole about it."
"You haven't been that bad."
"Liar." I heard the ghost of a smile in his voice. Then, quieter: "I'm probably going to be worse tomorrow."
"Probably," I agreed. "But we'll deal with it."
More silence. The darkness pressed in, broken only by thin moonlight through the window. I was hyper-aware of Cord beside me—the heat of him, the sound of his breathing, the small movements as he tried and failed to get comfortable.
"Dusty?" he said again.
"Yeah?"
"I'm scared."
The admission was so quiet I almost missed it. I turned over to face him in the darkness, found his eyes already on me.
"I know," I said. "But you're doing it anyway. That counts for something."
He didn't respond, but his hand found mine in the darkness. A brief squeeze, then he let go. I turned back to face the wall, closed my eyes, and tried not to think about how the next few days were going to mess with everything I'd been planning for my life.
Behind me, Cord's breathing finally started to slow. Not sleep, but at least something close to rest.
It was going to be a long night.