Chapter 28 Rhea
Iroll over in bed to reach for my water bottle, but my sleepy fingers catch it awkwardly, and it tumbles from the dresser to the floor. “Shit,” I sit up and lean down to grab it from the floor, but lose my balance and end up on the ground with it in a pile.
“Of course it’s empty,” I groan as I open it.
Drunk Rhea, you are useless. I push off the ground, my legs and arms sore and heavy from all the booze, and make my way to the kitchen.
Brighton would scold me for filling it out of the tap, but I’m too tired to care, and the light from the fridge is too bright at three am.
I turn the water on, running it as cold as it will go and struggling with the tight lid on my bottle for too long before it pops open.
At this point, it would have been better to die of dehydration.
I yawn loudly and stick the bottle under the water when I hear a noise to my left. I pause, listen, and turn my head slowly to look through the darkness of the apartment, but don’t find anything.
Or at least nothing I can see. Comforting.
“Brighton?” I whisper when the noise happens again. I turn off the water and set the bottle on the counter to investigate more. Padding across the tile floor to the pitch black hallway where the noise is stemming from, it rattles again, like someone trying to unlock a door.
I peer into the darkness and listen, but it’s silent, which is almost instantly worse than the unknown noise. I put my hand on the archway and lean forward more, not quite willing to explore it completely.
“Hello?” I say, yeah, because if there’s something in the dark, it’s going to answer you, Rhea. Dumbass.
The rattling is gone, and I straighten out, thinking maybe it was the tap shaking? I look over it and scowl, but as I go to walk away, I hear the noise again—this time louder, almost urgent, and it causes me to step forward in the darkness further.
As my eyes adjust, I realize that Brighton is at the end of the hallway at Daisy’s door, rattling the doorknob but not opening it, and my chest tightens.
“Brighton?” I say to him, but it’s like he doesn’t hear me.
His torso is drenched in sweat, and he’s all but banging his head against the wooden door as he violently tries to get inside.
“Bright?” I try, it feels weird having his name roll off my tongue like that, but the situation is uncomfortable, and I don’t know what else to do.
He doesn’t stop his methodical movements, almost like he’s stuck in a trance he can’t get out of. I step closer, my body rigid and on guard as he abruptly stops shaking the knob, but his lips start to move, and he grumbles something under his breath for a moment before the rattling starts again.
He’s stuck in a loop.
He’s sleepwalking.
“Ok, um…” I roll out my shoulder, trying to wake myself up a little more before approaching Brighton and reaching out to touch his hands.
“Hey Brighton,” I say quietly, trying to get him awake without startling him, but it doesn’t work, and he whips his head toward me.
His dark hair is messy and plastered to his forehead with sweat as he advances on me, and I stumble back through the hallway out of his reach.
“Hey! Hey, hey,” I put my arms out, almost tripping over the couch from his sudden movement.
My heart is racing in my chest so rapidly that it feels like it's trying to rip itself to shreds in fear. Panic surges, and the reality of the situation begins to bleed into memories of my childhood like they’re one messed-up video reel on repeat.
“Brighton!” I yell, grateful that Daisy isn’t home this week to hear me screaming. My eyes flicker over his shoulder to the hallway. Why is he trying to get into her room?
His footsteps are heavy against the floor, and despite my better judgment, I screw my eyes shut for a split second to remind myself where I am. Every dangerous thought flickers through my head—no, no, he’s a good dad.
I don’t know how to stop someone from sleepwalking! I try to breathe, but it feels like his hands are already around my throat, and I can’t tell the difference between my memories and what’s real until I smell Brighton’s cologne. This is real.
My eyes fly open, and I put my arms out behind me to feel my way around in the dark as he advances. “Brighton,” I lower my voice as he charges at me. I’m basically pinned down against the island with very few options to put space between us. So I do the opposite.
“This is idiotic,” I whisper, before meeting him in the middle and wrapping myself around his torso with a tiny yelp of fear for what he might do.
I squeeze tightly and wait for him to freak out, but he freezes, his entire body going solid.
I hold my breath, waiting for the worst, but he just stands there for a long, terrifying moment before he clears his throat and his body starts to relax.
“Rhea?” His voice is dry and scratchy as I tilt my head up to look at him, slowly uncurling my fingers from his sweaty skin. I quickly step back from him until my back hits the counter. He looks confused as he reorients himself and figures out where he is.
“Did I hurt you?” Is his next question, and it surprises me because he didn’t, but it’s the second thing that worries him after coming to his senses, and it tugs weirdly at my chest.
“I’m fine,” I say slowly, “are you okay?” I ask him.
“I uh—” He stops and turns around, looking at the living room before his exhausted eyes land on me. “I—” he tries again, and nothing comes out, but his hands are shaking violently at his sides. His brows furrow, and his jaw is so tight it looks painful as he watches the tremors in disgust.
My own heart still races at a painful pace, but at least my brain doesn’t think we’re in danger anymore. The splinters of my father are gone, and only Brighton stands in front of me, sad and confused. Shit.
My heart goes still, then starts to break away in tiny flakes at the sight of this normally sturdy man, shaking. Every inch of him is shaking.
“Let's get you back to bed?” I suggest uncomfortably, completely unsure how to diffuse the tension and drifting away from the counter to stand in front of him. I offer him my hand, and he looks down at his own, trembling before he takes it and inhales sharply like the contact burns.
I lead him down to his room, and it’s exactly as I expect.
Clean, organized, white sheets, a gray blanket, and a single fan in the corner to keep him cool.
I smile to myself, not bothering with the light as I pull him back to bed and help him in.
“I’ll get you some water,” I turn to leave, and Brighton’s hand catches my wrist.
“How did you…” He breathes out, still sitting up in bed. He wipes his face with his other hand and hangs it there for a moment, only his ragged breathing echoing through the dark room. I stare at his hand around my wrist and keep my focus on that as Brighton collects himself. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” I stop, confused, and he catches the look I give his hand, because he quickly releases my wrist and folds his hands into his lap beneath the blanket, out of sight.
“Not telling you about the sleep walking,” he chokes out the words, and he’s never sounded so unlike himself.
“No harm done,” I smile at him, but he doesn’t return it. Other than some crippling trauma—but that’s not your problem. “Does it happen often?” I ask, unsure what to do.
“No,” he says, “I mean… I don’t know.”
“You were trying to get into Daisy’s room?” I say, and he looks up at me with a heartbroken realization.
“It’s nothing, I…” he sighs. It’s a strange thing to watch Brighton Black stumble around on his words.
Not that he uses many normally, but to hear him struggle with his explanation is odd, and does nothing to quell the overwhelming empathy that’s currently strangling me to death.
A smart person would walk away, take a beat, give him space.
But I’ve never really been good at that—the whole space thing.
My brain has always needed answers immediately so I can fix the problem; if the problem doesn’t exist, neither does the anxiety. The worry, the fear… the dread.
“This is childish, and it’s three a.m. You can go back to bed,” he says.
I don’t move. “Tell me?” I ask, sinking toward the bed with caution as he watches my movements but doesn’t tell me no. I sit at the end, curling up my legs and wrapping my arms around them.
“Locked doors,” he says. “I don’t know what it is about them, but…”
“Is it PTSD?” I ask him, and his head snaps up. I try not to flinch, but my body reacts, and I see his brows pinch together in the darkness. “Military brat,” I say, watching as the air leaves his chest in one thick wave.
“I didn’t know,” he says. He looks around him and gently palms the top blanket on his bed to hand to me as my body shivers from the fan blowing on my back.
“My Dad was in the Marines my entire life,” I admit. It’s strange talking about him, and the tightness in my chest grows. “He used to… sleepwalk? But it was different, it was during the day.”
It’s psychosis. That’s what the doctors told Mom, extreme trauma to his brain and nervous system turned him into a lunatic. ‘He needs to be in care twenty-four hours a day and medicated for the time being.’
“Even more reason to be sorry,” Brighton interrupts my thoughts. His voice is more quiet than I've ever heard it. “You didn’t rent that room to babysit some fucked up Jarhead.”
“I’m the one who intruded on your sleepwalking quality time for water,” I say with a small laugh, trying to lighten the situation, but he doesn’t even smile. “Besides,” I say, shifting on the bed and tapping his foot with mine. “What are friends for?”
He nods, seemingly needing to hear it as his eyes flicker to the open window and rest there like he’s daydreaming. It’s quiet for a long time, and part of me is worried I’m not catching the social cue to leave, but then he speaks again.
“It’s not PTSD,” he says, but it’s pretty clear that it is.
“Okay.” Dad used to say that too.
Brighton’s head turns back, and he stares at me with the simple answer, his eyes so bright and sad against the darkness. I can tell that he’s trying to figure out how much to tell me, what to keep a secret, and what to share.
“Sunday liked to lock doors,” he says, clearing his throat. “Even before she was diagnosed with the seizures. It was scary ‘cause she’d lock herself in rooms.”
I fold my hands in my lap and listen, scared to spook him back into awkward silence.
“As we got older, our parents divorced, and things got harder. Just childhood crap,” he sighs, “Boone and I ended up taking over guardianship of Sunday.”
I didn’t know that. Sunday’s never told us that.
“Our Mother was never really equipped to deal with her medical issues, and our Father believed it was mind over matter, or that she just wanted more attention, and if Sunday believed the seizures weren’t real, then they’d stop,” Brighton explains, and I can see how uncomfortable he is talking about it.
“There were a couple of incidents when we were younger, but the worst one was the week after we moved into our apartment. We were eighteen and eleven, just kids trying to figure it out. Day went to take a bath and locked herself in the bathroom.”
His voice trails off, and his head dips like he’s ashamed of the rest of the story.
“She was there for a while, and I went to check on her, but she didn’t answer, so I kept trying the door, and Boone kept the keys on his belt…
” his story becomes little pieces that I’m expected to connect.
“She had one of the worst episodes she’s ever had.
By the time I got into the bathroom, her muscles had spasmed so badly that she was drowning herself. ”
I tense. I can’t even imagine a world without Sunday, and to have to experience that first hand like that… “But she’s alright,” I say quietly, and he looks up at me finally.
“Yeah, she’s alright.” He inhales slowly, like it hurts to do so.
“Locked doors…” he says again. I stare at him for a second before turning my gaze to the ceiling, counting invisible stars to slow down my heart.
“Why do you do that?” Brighton asks, and I tilt my head back to him, and he’s watching me carefully.
I swallow hard, staring at him. It’s my turn to figure out how much to tell him.
He’s been honest.