13. Everleigh

Chapter thirteen

Everleigh

Everleigh

A brief shake to my shoulder from a warm hand has me leaping out of bed and tumbling to the floor, but I land on all fours like the feral cat my mom and sister have claimed as their own. I go into a deep crouch, channeling my inner ninja. I’m going to fuck up that big shadow in front of me, and I’m going to do it now.

But then that shadow moves, and the lamp clicks on from the nightstand. It’s just Hans. In my room. In the dead of night.

What the fuck?

“Sorry. I’m sorry I scared you.” He holds both hands up in a very I swear I’m not here to hurt you or do any other funny business stance. The only thing that stops me from screaming is the black wall of desperation painted over his face. He’s not his usual playful, asshole self, and there is no trace of an accent in his voice at all. Okay, maybe just a little. German, I think. “I had to come get you. It’s serious.”

“What?” My heart goes pitter-pattering down the corridors of my chest, and shadows line those walls—panicked, monstrous shadows. “What’s serious?”

“It’s Darius.”

Now my heart doesn’t beat at all. It just stops cold. “What about Darius?” I can barely get the words out, and they’re mostly just my breath. I’m so scared of bad news. Primed by my past, when someone looks at me the way Hans is currently looking at me, it always, always, always means something shitty is going down.

“He has these nightmares. Usually, I just wake him up, but sometimes, it takes days before he’s right again. He’s good at hiding it and falling back into a routine, but it’s…think about that minute in the car multiplied by a thousand. He doesn’t talk about them, but it’s pretty obvious he relives the accident.”

“And you think I can make a difference?”

Hans shrugs. “It’s worth a try, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know.” I’m scared. This sounds personal on a level we haven’t yet reached. Intimate. Way too intimate. Even more intimate than what we did in the kitchen. I’m worried because I don’t want things to spiral downwards when we’ve got them under control and neatly tucked into something we can both understand, but then I think about Darius’ tear-stained face in the garage. Those tears were from before he faceplanted, not after. Whatever was going through his head was obviously powerful enough to hurt him like that.

“What if he gets surly about me being there? He’s not going to want it.”

“I don’t think you can make things worse.”

I want to laugh at that, but I control my laughter because it’s inappropriate. “In my experience, things can always get worse. And they do get worse.”

“Just don’t pity him,” Hans mutters and sighs. “I don’t think, in this case, you can make things worse than they already are. Just don’t make him feel like his head is broken because that’s not going to get him anywhere.”

“I don’t think his brain is broken!” I stalk over to the closet, tug open the door, and wrench a fuzzy sweater off the hanger. It’s some designer brand, and it probably costs more than what I make in a month working those two jobs I had. It’s so freaking soft, and it fits perfectly. “Jesus, Hans, I’ve been telling him over and over that he’s not wrecked.”

“Good.” Hans nods, satisfied, and it’s obvious I’m coming with him now. “Just had to check.”

“I don’t pity him either because he’s not some sad thing.” It wasn’t pity I felt when I wiped his face clean with the sleeves of my hoodie. When he was aware I was doing it, I could feel how much he hated it, but he didn’t take his shame out on me by being mean. He has never once been unkind to me.

“Even better.”

“I’m not here to save him, Hans. I don’t have the power to do that. I’m just a friend.”

“Excellent. Let’s go.”

By the time we open the door to Darius’ room, my heart is a writhing entity inside me that I have no power or hope of controlling or settling. I don’t know what I’m expecting. But probably one of those trashing, noisy, sweaty, screaming nightmares I see people having on TV or read about in books. The room is still, and it takes me a minute to realize why. Darius isn’t sleeping. He’s standing at the window—the heavy drapes are peeled to the side—with his hands on the windowpane. Outside, the moon is a crescent in a sky the color of a dark bruise, and the sky feels like ink spilled across my heart. The shadows in the room hold Darius in their confidence, lining his huge, impressive form with further nuances. He’s so beautiful standing in front of that window—a living statue carved out of the most raw, perfect materials the earth could offer up.

Hans squeezes my shoulder and shuts the door behind me with almost a soundless click. Almost, but not quite. I brace for Darius to hear it, but if he does, he doesn’t move. He’s only wearing a pair of sleep pants, the kind that looks like gray sweats with pockets. Okay, maybe they are just sweats.

There’s not enough light from the hallway since the door is closed, and also not enough moonlight now to illuminate the scars on his arm.

All my fears about this being way too off the hook at a level we’re not ready for just evaporate. Yes, okay, I’m still in his room, and I’m still worried about how many invisible lines are going to be crossed, but the sight of Darius’ broad, powerful form settles me, easing away the doubts and calming the butterfly wings slapping at my stomach.

He doesn’t move when I walk across the room. My throat is closed up, and my body is tense, not for a fight or flight, but for something. I don’t know how I’m supposed to help. Dang Hans and his brilliant freaking ideas.

It’s not until I get closer that I realize Darius is shaking. It’s the kind of vibrations that come from a well deep inside. He can’t contain them right now. He turns his head, and he’s seeing me, but his eyes are blank. Spaced right out. For a moment, I wonder if he’s even awake until he blinks. Do sleeping people blink?

Hans was right. Something is very wrong. I love Darius’ dark eyes, but right now, they’re midnight black. He’s not just trembling. He’s wound so tight that it’s like he could snap at any moment. Like he could fall to his knees and shatter right now, not a statue, but something tenuously held together, something priceless and highly breakable. I’d say glass, but that’s too token.

I want to say his name, but I don’t. Instead, I run my finger gently down the slope of his cheek to his jaw. His eyes flick to mine, the whites showing suddenly like he’s afraid. No, not just afraid but panicked. He’s not breathing hard. He’s not showing any outward signs of distress other than what I just saw, and he’s not even soaked in sweat after that nightmare.

I stroke my hand over his cheek to his ear, where I brush the shell of it before tangling my fingers in his hair. I step toward him, using my body like a shield until I can reach up and put my other hand on his shoulder. He’s warm, thank goodness. Not stone at all. Just human.

I finally whisper his name, “Darius. It’s okay. Can you come back to bed?”

He acts like he doesn’t hear me. He’s rigid under my hold—not pliant and melting into me. But he doesn’t push me away, either. It’s like he hasn’t registered that I’m even here. Okay, so maybe this is sleepwalking.

“Darius?” I unwind my hand from his hair and touch his bottom lip gently with my thumb. He doesn’t react, so I trace the curve of it. “Hey. Let’s go sit down, okay?”

It’s like leading a zombie across the room when I take his hand, but at least he follows. At least he sits on the edge of the bed. I now realize that the sheets are twisted up and tangled. Maybe there was some thrashing going on.

“Do you want to tell me about it? What were you dreaming about?”

No response, though I didn’t exactly expect one.

I reach down deep through the layers of pain and helplessness. Through to what my sister said. None of us know how much time we have left or what’s going to happen to us. So many people say that, but not many people truly understand it. I know Heather does.

His hands are resting on his knees, and I run my fingers lightly over them. “What did you mean when you said you were collateral damage?”

His eyes flash with something. Some emotion. They finally flick to mine, and I let out a sigh of relief. He’s here. He’s in there, and he’s coming back. At least parts of him are, even if really slowly.

“Because I don’t think you’re collateral damage. I don’t think you’re any kind of damage. You’re not broken.” I don’t know why he might listen to me now, but I think maybe right now is when he needs to hear it most.

He’s had endless surgeries. So many. Doctors think they can fix him, but they never do.

He also probably has physical therapists that come after the surgeries to help him. They probably think they can fix him, too, but they don’t either.

What about his family? His friends? Did they think they could fix him? Did they stop thinking that? Stop trying? Did they stop coming here? Did they stop caring after he had to go away and hide from the world?

“I’m glad we met,” I whisper. “Maybe it wasn’t how I’d ever imagined meeting someone, but I am glad.” A shiver runs through him. “Are you cold? Do you need a T-shirt? A sweater? A blanket? A warm bath?”

He finally tilts his head and blinks again. It’s not much, but it’s a sign of life, and I’m so relieved. I keep going, running my fingers down the inside of his arm and tapping on his wrist gently so he can feel me.

“You’re not collateral damage. I know everything changed after the accident, and there’s been a lot of surgeries and pain. I know you feel…that you feel…that you probably feel trapped in your head. Like it’s a cage. I hate that you said no one would want you except for your money. That makes me so sad because it’s not true. For anyone who ever cut you off after the accident because they didn’t understand or because they didn’t want to, I’m sorry. And for all those hurt in the past, I’m sorry too.” I tap out two small taps on his wrist before closing my hand around his again.

“Ev…” He says my name like he wants to believe me.

I’m not trying to outdo him or trade my shit for his shit, but maybe he needs to hear this. Maybe I just need to finally say it. “My dad died, and I’ve never had nightmares about it. He abandoned us, and then he…well, he had a heart attack and left us with a mountain of debts to pay off. He didn’t leave us for long enough to have truly left us behind. He left us, and then he had a heart attack two weeks later. Nothing was sorted, and it all fell on my mom. On us. There were a lot of times when I felt like I was drowning. Like it might be easier to escape that way. I’d panic, and it was horrible. The worry would press down on me until I felt like I was suffocating, but all of that…it’s going to be nothing. Nothing if my sister doesn’t get better. If I lose her, I don’t know how I’m actually going to live again. To be alive. To breathe. Every day after would be like having the life choked out of me.”

With his hand strong in mine, he reaches for me, signs of life rushing back into him. He’s waking up even though I know he wasn’t asleep, and then he’s closing his arms around me and pulling me into his chest. One gentle hand smooths down my back. My cheeks are wet, and I only notice it when I put my cheek on his right shoulder. I can feel the scars under my cheek, the ropey white lines and uneven ridges. I turn my lips to them and rest them against one.

“You’re not collateral damage,” I tell him brokenly through my raw throat. Maybe the third time is the charm. Perhaps if I keep repeating it, he’ll believe me. “Because you’re not collateral, you’re not spare, and you’re not something extra. You’re not something that can be put up against something else. You’re someone , Darius.” He shakes his head, and I feel the movement against my hair. His hand stops at the back of my neck and cups it there, his fingers threading through my hair, touching my skin, and grounding me. I was the one who was supposed to be helping him. “You’re my someone.”

I nestle my chin against his shoulder. He doesn’t pull back, and his hand stays on the back of my neck. I love the warmth of him against me. Behind me. Surrounding me.

“Hans came and got me.”

I don’t actually think he’ll answer. I can’t imagine this feels good for him, having me pry into things this way. But he does, though. He tells me in the softest tone as though he doesn’t want to hurt me, and it makes my chest constrict painfully. “I’m inside the car. Always being crushed. But it’s…it’s my dad too.”

I freeze, growing cold. “Your dad? Was he…was he driving? Was he okay?” I don’t know anything about this. I don’t know enough about it. Not one damn thing.

Darius makes a sound I can’t decipher, and I want to wrap himself around me. Two shaking pillars of fire who need each other. “He was okay in the accident. Just a few scratches. The car ended up on its side. My side. The passenger side. He missed the turn and drove off the road. He hit the ditch, hit the trees in the ditch. Thankfully, they weren’t old and very solid, or it would have been a lot more than my shoulder that was fucked up.”

I feel gutted, so afraid. I feel exactly like when I was sitting in the doctor’s office with my sister and holding her freezing-cold fingers while we were told she had cancer. I pull back a little, and he lets me. His hands slide down to my arms, resting on my biceps and holding me while I keep mine on his shoulders. We’re like twin mirrors of each other. “When you get in the car and the panic happens, what does it feel like? Are you back there? What goes on?”

“Because I need help . Because I need to move forward. ”

“Darius.” My fingers curl into his skin, not painfully, but grounding him, keeping him with me. I don’t want him to go back there right now. “No. You are enough, just as you. You’re not some shattered thing that needs reassembling. You’re you, and the you that I’m looking at now is beautiful. You’re magnificent, and you’re kind. Your heart is the most perfect, sweet, and innocent heart I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. I didn’t mean you had to move forward. Move in whatever way you want. Maybe even backward because that would probably be more helpful since that’s where it all started. But if you don’t want to go in any direction, then fuck it. Just like the car this morning. Fuck. It. Fuck forcing yourself, fuck getting in, fuck the pain and the panic and all that shit. It’s okay to be exactly the way you are right now if you’re okay with that. Who cares what the world wants and thinks? I can see under your skin, and maybe you don’t like that. Maybe you do. Either way, I’m here. I’m here , and you’re way the hell more than enough. You are like the perfect peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”

“Sloppy and layered on too thick?”

A dark laugh wants to burst out of me, but instead, a small giggle leaks out. “No, not sloppy. No way, though those are the best kind. And the peanut butter being layered on too thick is awesome. The jam, though, that part needs to be contained a little. You’re the perfect amount of both. On really delicious fresh bread.” I stroke my fingertips over the scars that are still mostly too dark to see, but I can feel all of them as I keep going. He lets me trace the pattern of past pains, hurts, and hopes. “You don’t have to be normal. Fuck normal. Normal never made for a very good sandwich anyway. And you know what? Driving is overrated. Walking is way healthier.”

“I was just being a dick,” he groans. “Maybe ‘fix’ is the wrong word, but fuck me, I’d like to make some adjustments to some things.” A long, still silence before he adds, “We let it happen.”

Acid creeps up my throat as my stomach spins. “What do you mean?”

He catches my hand in his and guides it to his heart. “I don’t know.” But I know he does. His eyes burn through the darkness. “Are you okay? You’re dealing with a lot of shit too.”

“I don’t know. I never really talk about it, either. But maybe we can talk to each other. Swap shit for shit and pain for pain.”

“That’s quite depressing.”

“Maybe we can just swap late-night sandwiches, funny stories, happy memories, and all that instead.”

“I’d like that,” he replies.

“I’d like that too.” I’m still sitting here, holding my hand over Darius’ heart. It’s beating regularly now, not fast or panicked. “I’m exhausted,” I admit, feeling how heavy my eyes are. I barely stifle a yawn, and biting down on it makes my eyes water.

“Me too.”

I get up and reluctantly pull my hands away, missing the warmth and closeness immediately. Normally, I’d think it’s dangerous to feel like that. I’d need to warn myself off and worry about getting too close, about wrecking things. Well, normally, but not tonight.

I pull back the covers, smoothing the sheets below and working them out of their twisted mess. I brush my hand over the bottom one, feeling to see if it’s damp because Darius was sweating and might have soaked through the sheets. But they’re dry, smooth, and cold to the touch.

“Here.” I motion to the bed. “Get in.”

He looks absolutely doubtful. “Are you going to tuck me in?”

“I am. I’m going to tuck you in and stay until you’re asleep, and then I’m going to get Hans, and he’s going to sit in that chair over there while you’re out. He’s probably going to turn on the lamp and read something in another language and pretend like he’s all super annoying and uncaring, but really, I can tell how much he cares. Even if he is genuinely reading something, he’s going to watch you like a hawk.”

Darius actually snorts, but he doesn’t resist my efforts to make him comfortable. He slides his legs into bed and lets me smooth the sheets around his massive form. My god, I’d like to get in there with him. I ache so badly to crawl beneath those sheets and just set my head on his chest and wrap my arms around him.

Darius turns on his side and nestles into the pillows. In a few minutes, his breathing evens out. I stay for fifteen or twenty minutes longer, not touching him but just watching the blankets rustle slightly as he breathes in deeply. Just being close.

It’s too intimate, but I don’t care tonight. I don’t care that it’s too much too soon, and it’s always going to be too much because nothing about this screams contract, and one day, this is going to end, and this isn’t the friend zone. Well, in a way, I guess it’s kind of the friend zone. I would definitely do this for my friends if I still had any close friends left, which I really don’t because I’ve spent years of my life working my ass off to survive.

A few minutes later, I go and get Hans, who is hovering around in the hallway. “He’s okay,” I tell him. “We talked. I think we need to talk more, but not right now. He’s sleeping, and I told him you would be all creepy and sit in the room and watch him sleep.”

“And he didn’t fight you on that?”

“Nope.” I can’t stop a small smile from appearing. “No, I think, secretly, he’s okay with that. You’re like a really creepy, annoying, and way too muscular older brother.”

Hans eyes me up. Tonight, in the light from the hallway, I can see the relief in his eyes. Aww, this big hulking guy who pretends he’s a brute and also pretends, annoyingly enough, not to speak English whenever it’s most maddening or when it suits him has a huge heart under that rough exterior. He won’t let anything happen to Darius.

And that is comforting as fuck.

“You’re okay,” he tells me like he’s surprised. “Considering his asshat brother chose you, I have to say I’m shocked.”

I roll my eyes and roll my shoulders back, easing out the strain that settled in there years ago. “Yeah, me too.”

He walks into the room and closes the door so silently that it’s almost uncanny. I walk down the hall in my bare feet, sticking to the expensive runner that goes on and on forever—seriously, how long can a rug actually be because this one might set a record—until I reach the guest room door.

The bed in there is king-sized because all the beds in this house are apparently king-sized and large enough to fit a small army. My mom and Heather are both sound asleep, each on opposite ends, and the murder psycho cat of hot death is passed out at my sister’s feet, curled into a little cuddly black and white ball of not-so-hateful hate. I can’t believe it.

Very quietly, I tiptoe across the room. I crawl onto the end of the bed, moving lightly. The mattress is of a crazy good quality, and it barely moves or shifts as I make my way across it. The cat wakes up, hisses at me, and then puts its head back down on its paws when it decides I’m not much of a threat. Or maybe it’s just waiting until I get down to its level before it attacks because it would have more chance of being effective then.

I lift the blankets and crawl under them. Then, I curl around Heather like one end of a parenthesis, bracketing her body with mine. I’m relieved to feel that she’s warm and solid.

A few minutes later, even in sleep, my mom rolls into me.

I lie there in the dark with my eyes closed, but I don’t sleep because I don’t want to let this moment go.

I’m right in the middle of the world’s most perfect sandwich.