Page 75 of Surviving in Clua


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“You were having a nightmare.” I touch the back of his hand, the tips of my fingers brushing over the slight dusting of hair there and the ridged scar just below his wrist, so many questions vying to be let out. Questions I know I won’t get answers to. I wet my lips. Press them together. Lift my gaze from his hand to his face.

Forehead creased, he blows out another long breath, stress practically rolling off him. “Just a dream.” He drags his fingers through his hair and twists it into a knot, forcing a smile that goes nowhere near his eyes. “Just… go back to sleep.”

“Mylo, maybe if you talk to me abou—”

“Go back to sleep, Kenzi.” He flops back down onto the bed.

I press both hands to my mouth. I should leave this. He’s right. He has his first surf class in the morning. I should leave this alone. I have his now. I have his future. I need to make it enough.I can’t. I turn to face him, one leg tucked under my bum, the other stretched down the length of his. “You can talk to me, Mylo. Maybe I can—”

“Fuck, Kenzi, will you stop! I’m not some fucking table you can just sand down and make pretty.” He drags his arm back over his face and lets out a long sigh. “Leave it alone.”

Hurt climbs up my throat, lodging there and refusing to budge. I chew on my lip, my gaze flicking from his covered face to the tattoos that paint even the paler skin on the underside of his bicep, my own truth becoming painfully clear.It might not be enough.

TWENTY-NINE

Mylo

The buzzing of my alarm drags my eyes open. Gritty and heavy, they slide right back closed again. The sun’s barely up. I’ve got time. I slide my hand across the bed. Nothing but cold sheets. No Kenzi.

I sit up and scrub my hands over my face, and little by little the nightmares from last night creep into my consciousness. The explosion. Confusion. The deafening ringing fading out to screaming—the kind of screaming that sears into your soul for the wrongness of it. The terror of it. The agony of realizing that it’s not sweat you’re wiping from your face, it’s blood and brains and bone.

I blow out a long breath. Suck it back in through my nose. Focus. My thumb taps my forefinger over and over, it doesn’t move to the next. Panic skits down the back of my neck, my mind struggling to reset, to tear itself from the past. My heart speeds in my chest.

Count the taps. Focus on the now. I puff out more air. Breathe it back in. Focus. Focus. Focus.

It eases back. Slowly recedes until I can almost breathe normal again.

Jesus. My hand trembles when I cover my eyes and take one last deep breath, the scent of flowers—of Kenzi—fills my nostrils, the one last shove I need to get my head back in the now.

She was awake last night. She saw—heard.I shut her down.

I get to my feet butt-fucking naked, scan the floor for my clothes before the memory of what happened in the shower crowds back in. I told her I loved her.She didn’t say it back,but she did let me touch her, let meshowher. And now my clothes are in a sogging wet heap on the bathroom floor.

She’s sitting on the edge of the sectional tying her running shoes when I get through to the living room, the top sheet from her bed wrapped around my waist. She’s not in her usual paint-splattered denim shorts and tank, she’s in her running gear. Black shorts and matching sports bra, her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, earbuds already in, completely unaware that I’m there.

After double knotting her runners, she sits up with a sigh, sucking it back in sharply when she notices me. Hurt flashes in her eyes. Hurt it fucking kills me to know that I put there.

Seconds pass before she finally tugs the earbuds out. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” Her lips tip down, gaze flitting to my shoulder, then back to my face. She doesn’t need to say the words. Last night I broke something I can’t fix without throwing myself head-first into a past I barely made it out from with my sanity.

“Kenzi, I—”

“Can we justnot? I’ve got to get to work. The kitchen arrives today. Pete’s coming in early to finish up the electrics. I’ve got the lights to fit and the bar—”

“Kenzi—”

She stands up without meeting my stare, grabbing the half-drunk glass of orange juice from the coffee table. “Simon wants to go over the menu. We need to start advertising for the opening. I need to decidewhenwe’re opening, I need to figure out what I’m gonna call the place, and Ineedto not be thinking about you every minute of the damn—”

“Kenzi, stop.” I grab her shoulders before she can walk away. “Just give me a second. Just…” I scan her face, tension tightening the back of my neck even thinking about telling her about what’s behind my tattoos. Or worse—my scars. “My scars, my tattoos, thenightmares—it’s not that I don’t trust you with that shit, it’s just, it’s—”

“Mylo, you don’t have to talk to me, to tell me what happened to you, but…” Her chin trembles. “I think you should talk tosomebody.” She fixes her stare on my chest and shakes her head.

“I don’t need help.” The rough sharpness of my response has her gaze cutting back up to my face, her disappointment, herresignationimpossible to miss when she nods.

“Fine. Listen, I’m gonna go.”

I’m losing her. I release her shoulders. Rub the back of my neck. Try to control my breathing. She thinks she wants this. Thinks it won’t change how she looks at me—whatshe thinks of me.

I’m damned if I do and even more damned if I don’t.

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