Page 34 of In Somnis

Apparently, it was Tessa’s favorite, and I have a thing for fairy tales.

When she’s like this, obviously unreachable, I don’t push further. There’s no point in exercises or prompts when nothing is getting through. Instead, I keep watching, and reading is simply the shape it takes. I don’t believe she hears me in this state in any conventional sense, but stories don’t demand response, they don’t ask for effort, and if nothing else, I enjoy reading to someone.

We don’t have many people left, either of us.

So, I allow myself the small indulgence of pretending this is simpler than therapy. Two people sitting together, passing the time, and keeping each other company.

“Where were we…” I murmur, then I begin to read in a low voice, filling the room with words meant to reach places silence cannot.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Lennon

I’m in love.

I step out of the tiny grocery store, clutching a heavy tote bag against my chest, and I’m pretty sure I’m glowing. When I walked past this place looking for flowers that didn’t exist, I barely glanced at it. Now, I’m mad at myself for that.

Everything inside that place smells like it had been pulled from the earth five minutes ago. There were crates of apples, loaves of real crusty bread, and fresh butter.

God, I love good butter.

Good ingredients make me emotional on a normal day. On a bad one, they feel like proof that the world hasn’t gone completely rotten.

I went in planning to grab the basics for lemon-blueberry muffins, and somehow I walked out with all of that plus the most perfect sourdough boule I’ve ever seen in my life and a wedge of Brie I absolutely do not need but absolutely deserve. I haven’t eaten since the gas station burger.

Was that yesterday?

Time is soup, and my stomach is protesting loudly enough that a passing old lady gives me a sympathetic smile.

It’s fine. I will go home, make a sandwich the size of my face, change into comfy clothes, and take the longest nap any human has ever taken in the history of sleep. Then maybe, maybe, I’ll open the journal currently burning a hole through my tote bag and my conscience.

Or maybe I won’t.

I’m terrified of reading it. Hence, this detour.

I know there’s nothing written inside it that could magically fix anything. It can’t be more than a time capsule of a twenty-three-year-old Tessa. It can’t bring her back to me. Or my mom, my home.

I’m so lost in my own personal pity parade that I step straight into the crosswalk without looking. A horn blares, making me jerk back, and my heart jumps into my throat as I hitch my bag onto one arm. That’s when I realize two guys are already waiting for the light, standing next to me at the curb.

They’re young, probably high schoolers, both tall in that lanky way teenage boys typically are. One has glasses and a smug expression plastered onto his face, and the other stands out, catching my attention.

He looks like a fairy decided to try out a punk phase and absolutely nailed it. He has black curls on top, fading into honey-blond underneath, a ton of freckles dotted across his cheeks, and eyes accentuated with dark eyeliner. There’s silver everywhere—earrings, nose ring, and crystal rings stacked on every finger. He’s practically drowning in an ancient leather jacket over a white band tee and the baggiest jeans known to mankind.

But he also looks small, way smaller than he should be, given his height and frame. His shoulders are curved in, and his chin tucked down as he seems to shrink away from Smug Glasses, who is leaning into his space with a little too much force and a lot too much entitlement.

“You’re such a freak, Shaw.” Glasses laughs in his face. “You trying to curse someone with those stupid rocks again? Your whole family’s a fucking embarrassment to this town.”

Fairy Boy—Shaw, apparently—takes another step back, eyes glued to the ground. He clearly wants to ignore him, but Glasses reaches out and grabs the front of his jacket.

Yeah. Hell, no.

Some things don’t require thought. A kitchen fire, a boiling over sauce, or a cruel boy with his hands on someone smaller.

You just move.

I take one big step and then slap my hand down hard on Glasses’ forearm, just above the wrist, and his grip slackens in shock. Then I slide between them and push Shaw behind me.

“Who said you could touch him?” I ask, using the tone that has made grown line cooks freeze mid-chop.