I swallow the lump in my throat. If I’m going to do this, what better time than now? At least, if she evaporates into thin air, I’ll be with her when it happens.
We’ll have been together.
“What’s your name?” Each word is more difficult than the last to get out. I hold my breath, afraid of the unknown. The irrational possibility that she’s just a figment of my twisted imagination.
Her lips part slowly. “Claire.”
And with that one syllable, a new life is awakened within me.
“Claire.” I let it roll off my tongue, testing the name out.
It’s beautiful and angelic, like her, and I’m not at all surprised with how familiar it feels.
Moments pass and she stays, disproving my foolish fears.
She struggles to keep her eyes open, and once they close, she becomes even more delicate than before. There’s a saying about not plucking a beautiful flower, because when you do, it will wither and die. Well, Claire is a rare flower that should never be picked. Not a soul could ever be worthy of what she has to offer. She is a gift from the universe that should not be disturbed or tainted by this cruel world.
It pains me to know that there’s no way I can have her in my life. Not if I intend on putting her safety first. The best thing I could ever do for her is to push her away, not allow what’s going on with me to corrupt her in the same manner it’s doing to me.
At the very least, I owe her that.
I pull my hand away from hers, despite fighting the desire to keep it there for as long as possible.
Her dark brown eyebrow raises, and she extends her arm into the space between us. “Stay.”
My heart constricts, but I remind myself that she’s drunk. She probably doesn’t know what she’s saying. Maybe she thinks I’m someone else. Anyone other than me. I have done nothing to deserve the privilege of staying here with her.
“Johnny…” She adjusts her head on my pillow and exhales deeply.
If tomorrow comes and I have to say goodbye, at the very minimum, I can give myself the night.
I tuck a strand of her long hair behind her ear and glance over to the recliner in the corner of my room. I quietly grab a blanket from the linen closet and settle into my makeshift bed.
It’s not far, but it still doesn’t seem close enough. I’ll be able to keep an eye on her in case she needs anything. Or I tell myself that to excuse my decision of sleeping in here instead of on the couch in the living room.
I stay in that old chair for hours, praying for sleep to finally take me. But it never comes. I watch her steady in and out breaths to reassure myself that she’s okay and contemplate what the fuck I’m going to do about the Franklin situation. I can’t seem to shut my mind off and get any of the rest I desperately need.
I’m never going to heal from all of these injuries if I can’t doze off for even a minute.
Claire rolls over and flops her arm against the bed. Her face is strained, and her leg twitches under the blanket. She mumbles something but I can’t make it out.
I raise my head and take a better look.
“Stop,” she urges.
She’s having a nightmare.
My first instinct is to wake her up, but if I learned anything from the night terrors my cousin has when he’s home from his deployment, it’s that you should avoid disturbing someone during an episode. It can cause them to be confused and disoriented, and often does more harm than good.
It’s for the best, but it doesn’t make it any easier to sit back and watch.
“Get off me.” She grips at the sheet and moves her head.
Something is trying to get to her in her dream, and I wish like hell I could be there to save her.
She turns the other way. “Please, Griff, you’re hurting me.”
Notsomething,butsomeone.
A metaphorical knife cuts through my chest at the plea that leaves her mouth.
Even in her imagination, how could anyone ever hurt her?
I hop out of the chair and rush to the side of the bed. If this goes any further, I have to wake her up. I can’t allow anyone to lay a hand on her. Real or not.
“I saidstop.” She flails one last time and then the tension in her body relaxes.
I let out a sobering breath and sink against the mattress. I close my eyes and lean my head back. A second later, a warm hand lands on my shoulder.
I glance over and see that her eyes are closed, telling me that she probably didn’t do it on purpose. In the words of Bob Ross, “It’s a happy little accident.”