Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
The memory fades and I'm back at the window, still watching her sit on that same porch.
Present day. Present fucking day and nothing's resolved. She's still out of reach. Still Matteo's sister. Still too good for someone like me.
And I'm still a coward.
The door opens behind me but I don't turn around.
"I'm going to bed."
Her voice comes out flat. Empty.
I should say something, should turn around and look at her and try to explain. But the words won't come.
"Goodnight, Enzo."
Footsteps on the stairs. A door closing. Silence.
I stay at the window, staring at the empty porch where I destroyed the best thing that could have happened to me.
The couch is where I belong. Down here, away from her, keeping distance like I should have done five years ago when I started letting myself get close enough to notice the way she laughs or the perfume she wears.
I lie down and stare at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster.
Sleep doesn't come easy.
My mind won't shut off, keeps replaying that night on the porch, the look on her face when I called her pathetic, the way her hands shook, the mascara running down her cheeks.
The way I wanted to cross that porch and kiss her until neither of us could breathe.
I turn over, punch the pillow, try to find a position that doesn't make my shoulder ache.
At some point exhaustion wins. My eyes get heavy, the edges of consciousness start to blur.
I'm almost under when I hear a loud piercing scream.
ISABELLA!
I'm on my feet before my brain catches up, gun in hand, moving. Up the stairs three at a time. Down the hall. Her door.
I don't knock.
The door slams open and I sweep the room with my gun. “ISABELLA!”
I check left. Right. Windows. Closet. Under the bed.
Nothing.
No one.
Just Isabella thrashing in the sheets with her eyes closed, her head turning side to side, her hands clawing at something that isn't there.
"No. No. Please. I can't—" Her voice is broken, terrified. "Don't. Please don't."
It’s a nightmare.
I lower the gun and set it on the dresser before moving to the bed.
"Isabella."
She doesn't hear me, still fighting invisible hands, still begging.
"Please. I'll be good. I promise. Just don't—"
"Isabella." Louder now. I sit on the edge of the bed. "Wake up."
Nothing.
Her breathing is getting faster, panicked. She's hyperventilating.
Fuck.
I grab her shoulders and shake her gently.
"Isabella. Wake up. You're safe. Wake up."
Her eyes fly open.
Wild. Unfocused. She's looking at me but not seeing me, seeing whatever was in that nightmare, probably seeing that basement nine years ago.
"No—"
"It's me. It's Enzo. You're safe."
I keep my voice low. Steady.
She blinks. Once. Twice. Her eyes start to focus, seeing me instead of whatever monster was in her dream.
"E-Enzo?"
"Yeah. It's me, baby."
She's shaking, her whole body trembling under my hands, sweat on her forehead, her breath coming in short gasps.
"I was—there was—"
"A nightmare. You were just having a nightmare, you’re fine now."
"The basement." Her voice cracks. "I was back in the basement." She stops, squeezes her eyes shut. "He was there. He was there to..."
She can't finish but I know what she means. Whether to keep her alive. Whether she was worth the trouble.
"You're not there. You're here. At the cabin. You're safe, look at me, I’m right here with you."
She opens her eyes and looks at me. Then she starts to cry.
Not the silent tears from earlier. Real crying. Her face crumpling, her breath hitching, sobs that shake her entire frame.
I should let go, should stand up, should leave her to cry alone.
But she's grabbing my shirt, fisting her hands in the fabric, pulling herself closer.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I just—"
"Don't apologize."
"I can't stop seeing it. I close my eyes and I'm back there. I can smell it. The mold. The rust. I can hear his voice, that cold voice."
Her face is pressed against my chest now, crying into my shirt, her whole body shaking with sobs.
My arms move on their own, wrapping around her, pulling her closer.
This is a mistake. I know it's a mistake. But I can't make myself let go.
"You're safe. I'm not going to let anyone hurt you."
She cries harder like the words broke something loose.
I hold her, let her cry, run my hand down her back in slow circles the way I used to when she was thirteen and came home crying because some boy at school was mean to her.
Except she's not thirteen anymore. And this isn't about some stupid boy.
This is about real trauma. Real terror. Real monsters that still exist because I failed to kill them all.
Slowly, her breathing starts to even out. The sobs turn to hiccups. The hiccups fade to silence.
She doesn't pull away, just stays pressed against my chest with her hands still fisted in my shirt.
"Stay."
The word is so quiet I almost miss it.
"What?"
"Stay with me." She's not looking at me, just talking into my chest. Her voice is small, broken. "Please. I don't want to be alone."
Everything in me is screaming to say yes. To lie down next to her. To hold her until morning. To keep the nightmares away.
But I can't.
"Isabella—"
"Please." Her voice cracks. "Just for tonight. I can't..." She stops, swallows hard. "I can't be alone right now."
If she only knew how much I want to stay.
"I can't."
"Why not?"
Because if I get in that bed with you I'm not getting out. Because I've spent four years trying to keep my distance and one night holding you will undo all of it. "It's not a good idea."
"I'm not asking you to..." She stops. "I'm just asking you to be here. That's all."
"I know."
"Then why won't you?"
Because I'm a coward. Because I'm weak. Because the only way I can protect you from myself is by staying away from you.
I pull back, gently untangling myself from her grip.
She's looking up at me with eyes red and swollen, and I can see the exact moment she realizes what's happening.
That I'm leaving. Again.
"Get some sleep."
"Enzo—"
"I'll be right outside."
I stand, take my gun and move to the door, not looking back because if I do, I'm going to break.
I step into the hallway and close the door behind me, hearing the lock click.
I slide down the wall and sit on the floor with my back against her door, my gun on the floor beside me.
I'm not leaving her alone. Not after that nightmare. Not when she's this shaken.
But I'm not getting in that bed either.
This is the compromise. The hallway floor, outside her room where I can hear if she screams again, where I can get to her in seconds if she needs me.
Where I can keep my distance.
I lean my head back against the door and close my eyes, listening to her moving on the other side, the bed creaking, her settling in.
After a few minutes, silence.
I stay awake, counting her breaths, making sure they stay even, making sure the nightmare doesn't come back.
Somewhere around three in the morning, exhaustion wins.
I drift off right there, on the hallway floor, with my back against her door like a guard dog.
Keeping watch.
Keeping my distance.
Same as always.
I wake to the sound of movement.
The door behind me creaks just slightly and my hand is on my gun before my eyes are fully open.
Then I see her.
Isabella is standing in the doorway looking down at me with an expression I can't immediately read.
Something soft and vulnerable moves across her face just a second before she realizes I'm awake and looking back at her.
I don't know how long she's been standing there, how long she's been watching me on this floor before the door gave her away.
The second our eyes meet, her expression closes like a door shutting.
"I can’t believe you actually slept out here."
"I said I would."
She crosses her arms and her oversized shirt slips off her shoulder, her hair is loose and tangled from sleep and she looks like she got about as much rest as I did, which is to say barely any at all.
"That's ridiculous," she says.
"It's fine."
"The floor can't be comfortable."
"I've slept in worse places."
We look at each other and the silence stretches between us and gets heavy with everything that happened last night, with her crying in my arms and asking me to stay. I watch the memory move across her face in the few seconds before she looks away.
"I'm making breakfast," she grumbles.
She's embarrassed. About crying. About letting me hold her. About asking for comfort from the man she's supposed to hate and has very good reasons to.
And now I feel like even more of an ass.
"You don't have to—"
"I'm hungry," she says, and she's already heading down the hallway without looking back, her footsteps quick on the stairs.
I stay on the floor and listen to her moving around downstairs.
The walls are back up. I saw it happening in real time in her face, brick by brick, the moment her eyes met mine.
Good, I tell myself. That's how it should be.
I push to my feet and my back screams in protest, every muscle stiff from sleeping on hardwood.
Worth it.