Page 24 of What We Burn

I’m on the floor. Tangled in the sheets. My hands are at my throat, clawing at nothing. I can’t breathe—I can’t breathe—and for three terrible seconds I don’t know where I am. Hospital. Bushes. The dark. The rope.

The bedroom door opens.

“Baby girl?”

Micah.

He doesn’t turn on the light. He crosses the room in the dark, crouches beside me on the floor, and puts his hand on my back. He doesn’t grab me. Doesn’t pull me into his arms. He’s been around enough broken people to know that touch can go either way in the first seconds after a nightmare.

“You’re at Holden’s house,” he says. “You’re on the floor. You fell out of bed. You’re safe.”

I’m shaking so hard my teeth click together. My throat burns from the gasp and my eyes are streaming. I press my forehead against my knees and try to breathe.

His hand stays on my back. Anchoring me in place.

“Breathe in for four. Hold for four. Out for four.”

I try. The first breath stutters. The second is better. The third reaches my lungs.

“Good. Keep going.”

The shaking slows. My fingers uncurl from my throat. I feel the sheets twisted around my legs, the cold floorboards under my hip, the warm weight of Micah’s palm between my shoulder blades.

“How did you hear me?” My voice is wrecked. Worse than it’s been all day.

“Light sleeper.”

I lift my head. In the dark, I can make out his shape—the outline of his shoulders, the pale smudge of his face. He’s in a T-shirt and sweats. His hair is a mess.

“Can you get back in bed?”

I nod. He helps me up, untangles the sheet from my ankles, and waits while I climb back in. I pull the blankets up. My hands are still shaking.

He straightens to leave.

“Stay.”

He stops.

“Please.” I hate the sound of my own voice. Hate how nothing it is, how wrecked, how much it hurts and feels like begging. I’ve never been someone who begs.

But I can’t be alone right now. Not in the dark, not with the rope still around my throat in a dream I can’t wake up from fast enough.

Micah doesn’t hesitate. He walks around to the other side, pulls back the covers, and gets in. He doesn’t touch me. He lies on his back, one arm behind his head, and stares at the ceiling.

I roll toward him. Press my forehead against his shoulder.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

His arm comes down and settles around me. He pulls me closer, my head on his chest, his chin on my hair. His heartbeat is steady under my ear. Solid. Consistent. The kind of rhythm you could set a clock by.

“Go to sleep, baby girl. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

I close my eyes. The rope doesn’t come back.

But the anger stays.

It sits in my chest all night, quiet and patient, waiting for me to decide what to do with it.