She fires off another text. It’s a picture of the Mafioso with a smug smile and a thumbs up. ‘Before he left,’ she adds.
/> ‘Cute.’
“Hashtag sarcasm,” I murmur to myself. I pour the blackberries into the pot and start to crush them with a wooden spoon.
That’s when I hear it: a low moan like a strong wind moving along the cabin’s logs. I stop and swallow. I don’t think it’s that windy tonight. A whimper reaches my ears and my heart kicks up into my throat.
* * *
Barrett
I fumble for my pocket. Many nights, it’s the first thing that I do. Go for my medic bag. Because I think the pain is physical. I think I got blown up and need to fix myself.
A few more grains of sand in the hourglass of consciousness, and my mind lights up like a bomb. Regret cuts through me, slicing through my heart, puncturing my lungs so I can’t breathe. I can’t move, and Breck—he couldn’t move.
It all makes sense, a kind of cosmic sense. I never try to fight it. Vaguely aware of something softer than the floor beneath me, I curl over on my side and hold my head. With every cell in my body, I know I deserve this. I lie here and try to take it.
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.