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“For what?”
“For giving me everything I ever wanted.”
We're both startled when the door leading to Tatum's wing opens. Right away, I let go of Callum, even taking a step back. I don't know why that's my immediate reaction, but I can only guess at some lingering guilt. Tatum says she's okay with us being together, but that doesn't mean I want to rub it in her face.
It's not Tatum who emerges, and a glance at Callum reveals his frown of confusion. “Is everything alright?” he asks Romero, who stops dead in his tracks at the sight of us.
“Oh, yes. She's fine.”
A question is on the tip of my tongue… are they? No, Tatum would tell me, but then why is he coming from her wing dressed in a t-shirt and sweatpants?
“It's not what it looks like. I only wanted to check on her,” he explains.
I get this strange rumbling feeling in my stomach. Something's off here. “You know what? I'm going to check in on her,” I tell Callum. “I'll be up in a little bit.”
“Tell her I said goodnight.” Callum starts up the stairs without another word. Usually, he'd go straight to his office, so he really does plan to take the night off.
Romero's still standing in the doorway as I approach. “Okay. Tell me the truth. How is she, really? Because I swear, I can't get a straight answer out of her no matter how hard I try.”
He looks back over his shoulder toward her bedroom. Romero's known for his lack of emotion and feelings, yet I can see the concern etched into his features like stone. “She's been having nightmares.”
I sigh, leaning against the door frame. “Of course she has been. Who wouldn't?” I've had more than my share of them in the past few weeks.
“I happened to check in a few nights ago, when Sheryl asked me to take her some tea to help her sleep,” he explains. “I would've been on my way to my place otherwise. I'm glad things played out the way they did, or she would've been alone. She was sobbing in her sleep and let out a horrid scream when I woke her up.”
“Jesus.” And here I am, floating on Cloud Nine while she's suffering, slowly drowning in a pool of trauma.
“She doesn't want anybody to know. Not you, not Callum.”
“I guess that would explain why she never told me, but I feel like she never tells me anything anymore.” I frown, hating that I admitted such a thing to Romero.
“I've been sleeping in her office the past few nights,” he confesses. “I'd rather you not tell Callum, please. I don't want him to get the wrong idea. He'd rip my balls off and shove them down my throat if he thought… ”
“But he should know,” I insist. “He needs to know. She's being so damn stubborn. How are we supposed to help her if she won't let us?”
“I don't have a clue.” He runs a hand over his dark hair, sighing as he does. I get the feeling he cares more than he wants to let on. Maybe he feels sorry for her. Maybe if I wasn't here, Callum would have more time to put into helping her.
I can't do that to myself, but I can't help it, either.
“I'll go in and say goodnight,” I offer. “Get a feel for how she's doing.” Relief flashes in his eyes, and he nods, like he wanted to do that but knew better. While things have eased up between them—she's not ripping his head off the way she used to—there's never any telling with her. I've never seen anybody's mood change as quickly as hers does.
She's watching something on her laptop when I ease the door open, sitting with her back to the headboard. “Hey. Sorry if I'm interrupting.”
She rolls her eyes and waves me in. “Another true crime documentary. I'm, like, addicted to them now. Women getting revenge.”
“We should watch something together, in the living room. I'm not doing anything tomorrow.”
Lifting a shoulder, she turns her attention back to the screen. “I feel more comfortable here.”
The impulse to argue with her leaves me biting my tongue. I don't want to fight, and that's exactly what we'll end up doing if I push any harder. This room is becoming her tomb, full of used dishes. At least her hair looks like it's been washed recently, which is a step up, and she's wearing clean pajamas. Small miracles.
I wish I knew why she's so against talking to a doctor.
I also wish I knew why she insists on having the sapphire blue urn on her nightstand. She catches me looking at it. “It's pretty,” she murmurs. “And her ashes make me feel… safer, somehow.”
Her mother's ashes make her feel safer? If only I could understand where her head is right now.
“I'm glad you have them,” I venture, crossing the room so I can sit on the edge of the bed. It occurs to me that maybe I should've changed before I came in here rather than walking around in a dress that cost more than I used to pay in a month's rent when I was living with Lucas.
