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“Yes,” I say. “That does sound like a suitably friendship thing to do. You might regret giving me free rein of movie choice, though.”
* * *
My eyes feel like glue. Heavy and weighed down with tiredness, and my bed is like a cloud of cotton. The room is still dark, and the alarm clock by my bed reads two-fourteen a.m.
No reason for me to be awake.
I turn over and snuggle into the pillow, relaxing back into sleep. I’m nearly there when I’m jolted awake by a sound. The same one that must have broken through my sleep earlier.
It sounds like someone yelling.
I throw the covers back and grab my phone from the nightstand. Is someone in the apartment?
I pad across my bedroom floor and press my ear to the door, but all is silent. Not a peep. The scream had been close by, too. I crack the door open. Everything is dark.
Then a muffled sound echoes in the hallway. It’s coming from Victor’s bedroom. I walk closer on bare feet and stop right outside his closed door. On my phone, I dial 911 and keep my finger over the call button.
My heart feels like it’s about to burst out of my chest, a thousand possibilities racing through my head. Is there someone in there with him? Is everything all right?
I turn the handle and push his door open.
Victor’s large bedroom is cast in shadows. The king-sized bed stands in the middle, and only one figure is outlined on it, covered by a single thin sheet around his hips.
He hasn’t drawn the drapes and there’s enough light from the city behind to see his pained expression. He turns over, another low, agonized sound escaping his lips.
He’s having a nightmare.
I’m locked in indecision on the doorstep. The one thing I can rule out is calling 911. But from what I know of Victor, he would not appreciate me seeing him like this, not to mention waking him up.
Weakness, I’ve found, is one of the many things he hates.
I turn to leave. But then he gives a hoarse scream, this time into his pillow, and it twists my heart. I have to wake him up.
I leave my phone on the floor and hurry across the soft carpet. Dressed only in the oversized T-shirt I always wear to bed, I crawl onto his California king.
“Victor,” I murmur. “Victor, I think you should wake up.”
He stirs, twisting onto his back. His eyes rove beneath his eyelids. I put a hand on his chest and find it clammy to the touch.
“Victor,” I say.
“No,” he mutters, legs moving beneath the sheet. His knee hits my shin with agonizing strength. “No!”
I grip his shoulders and shake him. “You have to wake up. It’s not real, it’s only a dream.”
His body stills and I soften my hands, moving them up to his cheek. His hair is damp where it sticks to his sweaty forehead. “Victor, you’re okay.”
His eyes open and blink. They take a moment to focus before settling on mine. “Cecilia,” he says. His voice is hoarse.
“Yes, it’s me. You’re okay, you know.”
He looks down at my hands on his chest. I’m about to lift them when he moves, pulling me against his chest. Through the thin fabric of my T-shirt I can feel the pounding of his heart. It mirrors mine.
“What are you doing in here?”
“You were having a nightmare. I… I heard you.”
“You heard me,” he says. “All the way into your bedroom?”
