By Park.
I jerk awake with a gasp, sitting straight up, the comforter puddling in my lap. My heart is racing triple time and I run my hands through my hair, tugging on the ends so hard it hurts, my eyes squeezed tightly shut.
Just a dream, just a dream, just a dream.
It takes me a while to calm my wild thoughts and heart, and I finally get out of bed to take a piss. When I return I find Jensen awake, sitting up with the sheet clutched to her chest, her hair a mess, her eyes big in the dimly lit room.
“I had a bad dream,” she admits when I crawl back into bed.
“What about?” I pull her into me, her head on my chest, her hair in my face, my arm around her shoulders. I can’t tell her about my dream. It’s too weird.
Too freaking scary to think about.
“I was back at my old house, where we lived before my dad died.” Her lips tease my skin as she speaks. “And you were there too, but I was so ashamed.”
“Of me?”
“No, of you being there and seeing everything. Our place was kind of a dump.” She hesitates before she says, “We lived in a trailer park.”
“Oh.” What do I say to that?
“Anyway, my dad was yelling at me. Calling me a slut, saying I was a whore, just like my mom.”
A mom reference. She doesn’t make those very often.
“He kept saying it and looking at you, like he was trying to convince you to say it too. Eventually you did, you both started yelling at me, calling me a slut and a whore, and I finally slammed my hands over my ears and screamed. I wouldn’t stop screaming. Then I woke up.” A shuddering breath leaves her, and I hug her close.
“You had that dream because you’re worried about what my family thinks of you. You basically said that to me in the car,” I explain.
“I know. You’re right.” She presses her face against my chest. “It was awful. It felt so real.”
“You’re not a whore—you do realize that, right?” I press a kiss to the top of her head. “It’s not like you get paid to have sex with guys.”
She goes completely still, to the point that I worry she’s passed out or something.
“Jens?”
Nothing.
I shake her shoulders. “Jensen.”
“Yeah?” Her voice is small. So small. She doesn’t sound right.
What’s wrong with her? It’s like I ask that particular question, and she’s having a quiet freak out.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Um…” She rubs her cheek against my chest, and I wonder if she’s stalling for time. “Yeah. I’m just…really tired.”
I kiss her forehead, trying to be understanding. I don’t want to talk about all of this either. It feels too heavy, too difficult. Our bad dreams are revealing our fears, and I don’t feel like analyzing them any longer. “Go to sleep,” I tell her.
“Okay.”
Her weird reaction stays with me for the rest of the night.
Even in my dreams.
Chad is grinning at me when I enter the kitchen the next morning. Like full-on beaming so hard, it’s like I can see every single tooth in his head.