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I can’t stop the sounds escaping from my mouth. The wordless feelings. They’re the black that paints the night inside my head, keeping me lost.
And lost I should be.
I tug my hair because it helps mute the inferno in my chest. I push my face into the pillow and pull air in through its fibers. Until my body is awake enough to sense its own flailing. Until adrenaline starts flowing and I’m lightheaded. Until the shaking starts.
I roll over, wanting to stretch and feel my body. Make sure I’m still here…
GWENNA
“Barrett?”
My voice sounds clipped and breathless, spilling from my throat before I make it around the half wall behind the couch.
When I see him curled up with one arm around his head, the other covering his face, I feel like I just got punched in the gut.
“Barrett?” Softer now, because I’m standing right behind the couch. Sweat prickles my hairline and my heart throbs in my throat.
That’s the moment he jerks upright and writhes onto his left side, the left side of his head hitting the arm of my couch hard enough to thump.
A hoarse moan rips the silence.
Shit.
It all makes sense. Why he’s so tired. He always looks like he’s exhausted, even though he seems in physically good shape.
You’ve got this. Better you than someone else, I tell myself as I hurry around to the front of the couch.
My mom told me when Dad had nightmares, she’d tickle his feet. That way if he came up swinging, he wouldn’t hurt her. I peel the blanket off Barrett’s lower body, groping around for his soles. I feel…sneakers.
Shit.
My gaze lifts to his face out of habit, but all I can see is the top of his bowed head. I watch, feeling frozen, as his left hand, then his right one, grasps his hair. He breathes in huffs, then whimpers as he rests his head against the couch’s back. My throat knots up as he whimpers, then moans. He holds his head as if it hurts, and guilt fillets my insides.
I lean over, my stomach flipping as I grab his shoulder and shake gently.
“Barrett…”
He sinks back down into the corner of the couch, clutching his head. His teeth are bared. His breaths are strained.
A cold sweat prickles through me. What do I do? Even as I wonder, I’m pulling the coffee table over right beside the couch. I sit on its edge. Then I take a deep breath, grab Barrett’s elbows gently, and pull his hands down from his face.
His eyes are clamped shut. His face is tight. His posture is coiled, almost cowed.
“Barrett…hey…”
I fold his hands in mine. They’re damp and curled, half-fisted and limp at the same time. I lean over closer to him, squeezing gently as I whisper, “Hey—it’s Gwenna. You’re at my house, remember?” I stroke his knuckles. “We were watching Finding Nemo and you fell asleep.”
His eyelids flutter and he squints, recoiling like I’ve got a flashlight in his face. He drops his head back down. I feel a shudder rip through him. “I know,” he groans.
I release one of his hands and tap his bicep. “Can you look at me?”
He doesn’t lift his head. His shoulders rise, then fall. I hear him suck a deep breath down into his lungs—his shoulders curl a little on the exhale—and then gasp for another one. I can see the cords of tension in his neck. The tightness of his shoulders. He’s struggling to breathe. I can’t just watch and do nothing.
I move to the couch beside him, hesitating just a second while I find an angle that will work. Then I lean in close and wrap my arms around his wide chest. I press my cheek against the hard swell of his bicep and meld my body to his side.
I feel his torso stiffen. Feel his breathing hitch. A heartbeat later, one big arm encircles me. He crushes me against him, holding on so tight it hurts my ribs.
His mouth is on my hair. I feel him inhale, tickling my scalp. The breath shudders back out. For a heartbeat, I can feel his body lose some of its tension. Then he lets me go and leans away.
