Chapter 18

Sara putsthe dream to the back of her mind, shoves it so far away that it settles beside all the other trauma she wishes she could forget completely.

That is, if he would let her.

"Any good dreams last night, Princess?"

The hand holding the handle of her mug tightens as she closes her eyes and reminds herself not to take the bait. Instead, she finishes stirring the creamer into her coffee and places the spoon in the sink. "Yeah," she lies, "I dreamt that I lived alone. It was great."

Seth grins, his ankle hooking over his knee as he leans into his chair. Sara wonders if the antiquated floral print is as old as he is. "‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks.'"

Glaring over the rim of her mug, Sara tries to concentrate on the bittersweet taste of coffee instead of the sugar in his smile. "No."

"No?"

She settles in her usual spot on the couch across from him, feet curling under her. "It's Saturday."

He raises a brow, eyes glinting in amusement. "Indeed it is."

"There are no literature references on Saturdays."

"Oh? I wasn't aware."

"It's a house rule."

The sound he makes is half laugh, half scoff. "You wish me to speak plainly?"

"I wish for you not to speak at all," she retorts, her second sip of coffee interrupted by the ringing of her phone.

"Such a cruel girl," Seth admonishes, his eyes curious as he watches her pull the cell out of her hoodie and bring it to her ear.

"Hello?" she answers, frowning when there's nothing but silence in response. Sara sighs, rolling her eyes as she disconnects the call and tosses her phone onto the cushion next to her. "God, that's annoying."

Seth's gaze seems pinned to her phone, head canted and brow furrowed in thought. "Been getting much of those lately?"

"Too much," she grumbles, returning to her coffee. In truth, they haven't been coming too often—every two weeks or so—but it was enough to be irritating. Sometimes she didn't bother to answer, only for them to call a second time. At first she thought it was a prank, but the number keeps changing. She's written it off as an out-of-country scammer with a shitty connection.

There's a thread of tension in Seth's stare, though. It's unlike him.

Raising her eyebrows, she meets his gaze pointedly. "Why?"

The thread snaps, his shoulders lifting into a shrug that somehow still manages to look more prim than casual. "Curiosity, I suppose. The amount of telemarketer calls you lot receive is nothing short of horrifying."

Sara's laugh is breathy but honest. She can't say she disagrees.

Seth leaves shortly after.Sara strongly suspects it's because she's turned on Ghost Hunters (the level look he shot her made it pretty clear that he didn't appreciate her humor). She binges on the fourth season before catching up on the dishes and making spaghetti for dinner. The entire time, she basks in the lack of commentary—revels in the silence as she twirls the pasta around her fork—and makes a mental note to turn on Ghostbusters the next time she's desperate for some time alone.

Except, dinner is cleaned up and the sun has dipped far past the horizon, and there's still no sign of him.

Sara frowns, trying to still the anxiety coiling in her chest. Seth has never left her alone this long—especially when she's staying in—but that's not a bad thing. Maybe he's learning some boundaries, or maybe he was just bored hanging around her all day. Either way, she benefits. So what if it's weird?

Her fingers tap against the ceramic of her mug, chewing her bottom lip and glancing at the time. It's past midnight, and she's fast approaching season five.

Maybe, just maybe, he's gone for good?

Somehow, the thought isn't as welcome as it should be.

A loud pounding on her door startles her from her thoughts with such ferocity that she nearly drops her mug. Her free hand goes to her heart, releasing a shaky breath as she sets her tea to cool on the counter. In her chest, her heart beats against her ribs as she inches toward the door—trepidation growing with every striking knock.

"Hey! I know you're in there! Open up!"

Sara stills, stomach dropping. The voice is slurred, but she would recognize it anywhere. Shaking, she takes another step forward—hand rising to the lock.

Seth's voice materializes behind her. "Don't."

Jumping, she snatches her hand back to her chest—tries to calm the racing of her pulse. "It's David."

"Not the one you remember."

The pounding continues, in time with her heartbeat. The door rattles in the frame. On the other side, David continues to utter slurred commands.

Sara shakes her head, gathers her courage. "You're wrong." She reaches toward the deadbolt, but Seth blocks her path.

"I'm not."

He isn't solid, she reminds herself. She can reach right through him if she chooses to. As if he can read her thoughts, Seth's expression shifts—the warning edge softening into something pleading. Something desperate. "Please, please listen to reason." His hands rise, hovering between them. If he were real, Sara would think he meant to touch her face. So close, she can see the way they tremble before they drop back to his sides. "If you let him in," he breathes, a storm of warnings and prayers, "I won't be able to help you."

Nervously, she licks her lips. Her voice, less than a whisper, wavers. "Help me?" David's fist is still hammering against the door, the rhythm drunken and sloppy. He would never hurt her—never. He probably needs help or, maybe, he's finally remembered?

The thought alone is enough to bolster her courage, and her spine straightens with resolve. "Move."

Seth's face twists into a grimace. "Sara, please—"

It's the sound of her name on his lips that does it, heat prickling her palms. "Move."

He stares down at her, eyes searching her own with a terrifying intensity. "No."

"You can't stop me," she reminds him.

His eyes close—pained. It's enough to make her confidence shudder, and when his eyes reopen, she's rooted by the honesty she sees in them. "No, I can only beg you to see reason. He's not in control of himself. If you allow him in, he will hurt you. Do you understand?"

She doesn't—she can't. Behind him, she can hear the door handle shake violently and her breath catches in her throat. Something cold coils in her gut as she recognizes with growing horror the amount of force on the other side of the door. "David would never hurt me," she whispers, but her voice is as wavering as her faith. The sound changes—he's switched from fists to feet. Sara wonders how bruised his hands will be in the morning. "He just wouldn't..."

For a long moment, Seth is silent—David's drunken curses slipping through the silence like a knife. "Ask him, then."

"Ask him?" The words feel heavy, cloying and awkward as stale taffy on her tongue.

"Before you open that door, ask him why he's here."

Sara swallows, throat tight—raw. David tries the handle again.

She can't. Something in Seth's eyes, in his voice, rings true enough to make her afraid of what answer she would receive if she found the courage to ask. "I hate you," she whispers, eyes burning.

The tension in his shoulders eases, melting under her scathing words as if they were balm. "I know."

The softness in his expression, the gentle acceptance, only serves to make her hate him more. Angry tears roll down her cheeks, blurring her vision, but she gives him the darkest glare she can muster before retreating to her room—the door slamming behind her.

She screams—crying—into her pillow until her voice goes hoarse, and the insistent pounding on her door goes quiet.

There'sno missed calls when she wakes up. No voicemails. She wishes she could claim to be surprised, but the truth is she's just numb. Seth gives her space. For someone who exists to annoy her, he's shockingly adept at making himself scarce when she needs him to. Sara thinks of the bruises on her knuckles, the feel of his jaw beneath them, and tries to convince herself he does it for his sake more than hers. But then she remembers the openness of his expression, the softness, when she told him she hated him.

"I know."

Sara wraps Oma's blanket around her more firmly, warding off the chill.