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I take a deep breath and close my eyes, willing the dream-Matty to disappear. There has to be a reasonable explanation for this, I mean, he can’t possibly be the boy I dream about. Can he? Has he always looked so similar to Matthew? Or is it my subconscious putting the boy I called Matty into the position of my hero because he is my rescuer in so many ways?
“Love, you’re starting to worry me, what is it? Did you have another nightmare?”
I shake my head. “Honestly, I really don’t know what I am at the moment. I had a dream, but now I’m wondering if it’s not actually a memory.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Do I? Will he think I’m crazy if I tell him that I’ve been dreaming about him—or a boy who looks like him—for years? Maybe I am crazy.
“I—I think I dreamed about you,” I shake my head again, trying to dispel the dream-Matty from my mind. “It doesn’t make any sense. I’ve had these dreams for as long as I can remember. Usually after…” I close my eyes, stopping that train of thought in its tracks. I don’t want to go there right now—maybe not ever. “This dream is both my favorite and my least favorite.”
Matthew’s not looking at me like I’m crazy. He actually looks… excited?
“Why is it both your favorite and least favorite?”
I chew on the inside of my cheek, not sure that I want to answer. I close my eyes, take a deep, steadying breath, then decide to tell him the truth. “It’s my least favorite because I know I’ll never see you again. And it’s my favorite because…” I hesitate.
If this is my dream boy, how will he react to me saying my favorite part is that he tells me he loves me? On the same token, what if he isn’t the boy? What if I tell him I dream of a boy who I now can’t seem to disentangle dream from reality?
Matthew gently cups my cheek and looks at me imploringly. “You can tell me anything, love. I’m not going anywhere.”
How does he always know what to say? With one assurance that he isn’t going to disappear on me no matter what I tell him, he’s alleviated my worries.
“It’s my favorite because you admit that you love me.”
Matthew sucks in a breath, and there is an intensity about him that I’ve never seen before. “Do you remember?” he asks with so much hope it’s painful. “Do you know who I am, my Rosie?”
And just like that, it comes flooding back. All the things I stuffed into a box in the back of my mind. Memories of my mother. Us laughing and dancing in the kitchen to 80s music before I lost her the first time to addiction. The memory of her healthy and happy is a knife to my heart because now that I remember the happy times, I also see her body prone on the floor, the needle still protruding from her arm. The funeral where the only two people in attendance were my social worker and me.
Then it’s Matthew. Matthew as a teenaged boy teasing me. Making me smile when smiling was the last thing I wanted to do. Matthew protecting me from our foster parents. Matthew finding me. No matter where I hid, he always came to pull me out. Whether it was from a tree, under the old porch, or from my own dark thoughts. He was always there. Until he wasn’t.
I don’t realize I’m crying until Matthew wipes the tears from my cheeks. “You’re my Matty. You’ve always been my Matty.”
His eyes close tightly, and he leans his forehead against mine. I wrap my arms around his neck and hold him to me. Hoping against all hope that this isn’t just another wonderful yet extremely realistic dream.
“And you’re my Rosie.”
“I thought you were just a dream. They told me you didn’t exist when I woke up crying for you. After a while, I believed them. I thought that I was crazy. That I was just making up a hero that would take me away.”
“Sweetheart, I am very real. I’m flattered that your subconscious thought I was hero material,” he says teasingly.
“In all fairness, conscious me thinks you are pretty heroic too.” The man saved me from Damon, paid I’m not even sure how much money to free me of his contract. He’s given me a place to live and a security detail—no matter how over the top that is, it’s sweet. Not to mention, he has provided me with medical care to help my body heal from Damon’s beating. You don’t get much more heroic than that in my book.
“Good to know.”
Matthew kisses my forehead, then rolls to his side, pulling me with him. I snuggle into his arms. There is so much that we need to discuss, but not now. Now, we find comfort and solace within each other’s arms. Reality will sneak up on us soon enough. No need to rush it along.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
MATTHEW
She fucking remembers.
Finally.
I should be at the club taking care of business, but I’m not about to leave this bed right now. I have my Rosie back, and I will not let her go again. Never again. She’s been through so much because I didn’t save her from the Grants in time. I won’t fail her a second time. She’s mine, and I take care of what’s mine. Always.
Every so often, Rose lifts her head from my chest and looks at me. I know she has something she wants to ask me, but for some reason, she keeps chickening out. My heart aches at the stark differences between the woman lying in my arms and the spirited girl I used to know. I want to demand that she tell me whatever it is that’s on her mind. I don’t want any secrets between us. Through pure force of will, I manage to wait her out.
