Twenty-Three
Griffin
The room is dark except for the strip of light under the bathroom door that neither of us bothered to turn off.
I don’t know what time it is, but it’s late enough that the town outside has gone quiet, the occasional car replaced with nothing but the pulse of the ocean. We’re close enough to hear it when everything else stops.
I’ve been lying here for an hour.
I’m not naturally an insomniac. Usually, I sleep when I feel tired, but for days I’ve been running on fumes and gas station caffeine. I’ve reached that point of alertness where a man keeps finding reasons to stay awake. But tonight, the ceiling is doing nothing for me. My thoughts won’t slow down, and I’ve accepted that this is just where I am.
There’s a rustle of sheets from the other bed.
“You awake?” Piper whispers.
“Yeah, Pipes.”
I see her shadow move, a faint shape in the dark. She slides out of her bed and crosses the small gap between us before sitting on the edge of my mattress and pulling her feet up underher. It’s a habit I’ve noticed on every chair and surface she’s occupied over the last five days. She’s in that oversized shirt, her hair a mess, and she’s got Gerald tucked under one arm.
I sit up against the headboard. We don’t turn on a light.
“I can’t sleep,” she says.
“Me neither.”
“What are you thinking about?”
“Work.”
She huffs a laugh.
“You asked,” I remind her.
“I did. Does that actually work? Thinking about bridge geometry?”
“Usually.”
“Not tonight?”
“Not tonight.”
The ocean does its thing in the distance. In, out. The room settles around us.
“What are you thinking about?” I ask.
She takes a breath. “Everything. Nothing specific.” She shifts on the mattress. “My brain won’t pick one thing to worry about, so it’s choosing all of them. It’s not as bad as the first night. It’s different. More like background noise.”
“That’s progress.”
“I think so.” She’s looking at the window, staring at the dark. “I keep thinking about what comes next. I’m not ready to face it yet,” she whispers. “But I will be.”
“I know you will.”
“I just needed—”
“Time,” I say. “I know.”
I see her posture relax as she exhales and picks at the edge of her sleeve. After a while, she stops and goes still. The quiet between us is the kind that’s been getting easier every day. It doesn’t require anything from either of us.
