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He leaves, and we resume the movie as if nothing happened. Natty comments enthusiastically on various scenes, but my interest went with Rhys.
As soon asTristen arrives home, Rhys moves back to Wes’s, and the nights become endless. In our short time together, I’ve gotten used to sleeping in his arms. I keep replaying our last night over and over—Rhys fulfilled his promise and spoiled my entire body until he snuck back to his room in the early morning hours.
But he’s not here anymore. It’s been a week, and as if on cue, the nightmares are back. It’s always the same dream, ever since the very first time on the road trip. Sometimeshejust talks to me; other times, heanxiouslyforces me to drink something that makes me sleepy. But I never see his face. I wonder if I haveeverseen it. If the memory doctor erased it, or if my subconscious is suppressing it. Whatever it is, when the dream ends, I wake up with a stifled scream, racing heart, and am covered in sweat—every single time.
Rhys texts me, asking if I’m okay, and I assure him that I’m good and just miss him. It seems to appease him—or he’s humoring me. I don’t know.
I don’t wantto dream anymore. On Friday—day six of the never-ending cycle—I manage to stay awake until one-thirty. That’s the last time I glance at my alarm clock. Next thing I know, I wake up with a start, sitting in bed, every limb shaking.
Not again.
I crave Rhys’s voice and having him assure me that I’m safe, but it’s four in the morning, and I can’t bring myself to call him. He’d be over here in minutes, and that would instantly raise questions with the parental units sleeping upstairs.
Slowly, I pad into my bathroom to wash the cold sweat off. Closing the door behind me, Rhys’s hoodie, which is hanging on the back of it, comes into view. Without thinking, I strip out of my sweat-soaked clothes, wash off the grime, and pull it over my head. He gave it to me freshman year, right before we completely stopped talking, and for the longest time, I had it stuffed in the bottom drawer of my dresser. But when the migraines started, something made me dig it out. I think I even wore it to school one day, as out of it as I was.
No wonder I’ve drawn attention.
The sleeves have always been too long, and there is a hole under one of the arms where the seam has come undone, but I don’t care. I cover my face with my hands hidden inside the fabric and inhale deeply. Rhys wore the sweatshirt the other night, making fun of me for still having it. It was way too tightandshort, revealing his lower abs. He looked like the Hulk about to burst out of his clothes. He explained that he wanted it to smell like him, which at the time made me laugh, and I replied how cheesy he sounded. Now, in the middle of the night, I’m beyond grateful for this small piece of him.
In the morning,I cancel my session with Spence and text Denielle that I don’t feel up for a workout. Her response is immediate.
What’s wrong?
Sometimes I hate that she knows me so well. I don’t cancel a workout—not unless I’m deathly ill. Putting my phone down, I debate what to type back. I don’t want to tell her about the nightmares. I haven’t even mentioned them to Rhys. I’m sick of being treated like the victim.
I’m just tired.
Try again.
Ugh.
I haven’t slept well since Rhys has been staying at Wes’s.
When Den doesn’t respond, I plug the phone back in its charger and take a shower. I only washed up last night and still feel gross.
Emerging an hour later with my hair smelling of my new favorite shampoo, slightly curled, and some light makeup, I feel semi-normal. Checking my phone, my best friend texted at some point to come to her house at eleven instead of meeting at the gym. Her parents are gone for the weekend—a spontaneous ski trip or something like that.
I can do that. Hanging out and watching TV.
I’mon my way to Denielle’s when a message from Sloane lights up the screen. We had been texting about a potential shopping trip with Emma and Den last night, and she probably wants to iron out the details. I plan to respond when I get to Denielle’s since I refuse to text and drive. I have to admit that I used to do it. But then a senior from WH got in a horrible accident last year because he was texting and spent weeks in the hospital. It was a wakeup call for a lot of us, and I haven’t done it since.
When I pull into the drive, I hit the brakes. A spike of adrenaline makes my pulse increase, and I grip the steering wheel. Rhys’s Defender is parked in front of the garage, and I can’t get out of my car fast enough. He’s here. By the time I ungracefully scramble up the front steps, the front door is already open, and I fly into his arms.
Home.
Catching me under my butt, he lifts me up like I weigh nothing. My arms and legs are wrapped around his body like a monkey, and he opens his mouth to say something when I capture his lips with mine. God, how I’ve missed this. He hums in approval, and I’m about to pull a Katherine when someone clears their throat behind us.
Denielle’s voice penetrates my foggy mind from far away. "Maybe we should take the welcoming scene inside?" She doesn’t sound upset, more amused.
I pull back from my Rhys as he walks back into the house with me in his arms, and the door closes. Den is behind me, and when I scan the foyer, Wes is standing on the bottom step of the wide staircase. Arms crossed over his chest, leaning with his hip against the rail, Wes grins like a loon. I wonder if Rhys has been just as mopey as me. He’s done a one-eighty and is moving us toward the kitchen. I tighten my hold, resting my chin on his shoulder. Zeroing in on Den, I mouth, "Thank you!" I can’t stop smiling.
Her eyes crinkle, and she gives me a nod. Her mission is accomplished.
Not letting go, Rhys deposits me on the kitchen island. He pulls me forward until my chest is flush against his, and we’re at eye level.
"I missed you." The three words are spoken in a murmur as his lips flutter over mine. Inhaling the smell of his minty toothpaste in combination with his own scent that is all Rhys, my body heats to an almost uncomfortable level, and I can’t stop the moan escaping my throat. Instinctively, I roll my hips forward, and he lets out a groan.
"Ohhh-kaaay, you two, take it upstairs before I start making out with Wes to alleviate all the sexual tension you two are emanating." Den’s words make me pull away and bury my face into Rhys’s chest, hiding my flushed face.
