Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 30269 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 151(@200wpm)___ 121(@250wpm)___ 101(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 30269 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 151(@200wpm)___ 121(@250wpm)___ 101(@300wpm)
He doesn’t even remember his nightmares.
I have no answers as my socked feet whisper across the marble floor. I enter the kitchen and let out a sigh of relief.
He’s here.
My shoulders sag an inch. If I’d found this space empty, it would have wrecked me far worse than any difficult conversation could.
Perched on his stool in flannel pants and a clean tee, gray this time, he hovers over his cereal, glasses pushed up his nose. A second bowl waits one stool down, the box angled toward it.
My eyes tear up.
Before I lose grip on my emotions, I blink back the sting and cross the kitchen to take my usual seat, leaving the empty stool between us as a buffer neither of us names.
The cereal box crinkles when I tip it. Milk glugs from the carton. I three-tap my spoon against the rim without thinking, then freeze, mortified.
If he notices, he doesn’t call me out on it.
I exhale slowly and bring the spoon to my mouth. For weeks, the quiet between us offered comfort, a sense of belonging. Something about his presence makes me content, and I think I do the same for him.
As long as we leave certain subjects alone.
But I can’t stay silent anymore.
“Do you…?” My voice comes out scratched, so I clear my throat and try again. “Do you remember what happened last night?”
One nod, then he shovels in another bite.
It’s more honesty than I expected. “You’ve been waking up screaming since I got here.” I set my spoon down. “But that was the first time I saw you sleepwalk.”
He clenches his teeth, going completely still except for the tap of his fingers.
One…two…three.
It’s all I can do not to shudder. The last thing I want is for him to mistake my reaction for anything other than what it is.
A bruise on my heart that aches for the little boy washing his hands raw last night.
“Hugo…I’m not sure what to say. I just want you to know that if you want to talk about the nightmares, I’m here for you.”
His stare goes vacant, fixed somewhere past the backsplash. For a long moment, he says nothing. If he wants to open up to me, he knows he can.
“They’re night terrors.” He blinks his way back to the present, voice going soft. “Different from nightmares.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”
“It’s okay. Most people don’t.” He sets his spoon down and lines it up with the edge of the counter. “I’ve never had a nightmare, as far as I’m aware. Those you remember.”
“So last night was…?”
“Sleepwalking, I guess. Doesn’t happen often.”
“But it has happened before?”
Another nod.
“You were washing your hands, turning them red.”
He lifts his palm and stares at it, brows furrowed. “I’m sorry if I disturbed you last night.”
“Hugo…” I grasp his hand, giving it no thought, and squeeze. “Stop apologizing.”
His gaze meets mine for three seconds before glancing off my shoulder. Shifting on the stool, I let go of his hand.
“Last night,” he says with a hard swallow. “Did I say anything?” He sounds more resigned than anything, which tells me he’s probably spoken in his sleep before.
“You did.”
“What did I say?” His fingers stall mid-tap.
“You were counting. The way you do.”
“Is that all?” As if bracing for the worst, he draws up his shoulders.
Sickness roils through me. My throat’s too tight, making it hard to speak. “That’s it.”
With a sigh, he lowers his head and drags both hands through his messy hair. “Just tell me, my queen. Please.”
My breath hitches. Oliver was right, that day in the penthouse. I’m a horrible liar.
“You said…” My vision blurs, and I will the tears not to fall. “You promised you wouldn’t tell, but you weren’t talking to me.” The next part barely makes it out. “You were talking to your mom.”
The color bleeds from his face, and for a second, I’m certain I’ve broken something I can’t put back together.
“She’s dead.” He goes so still I’m not sure he’s breathing. “Passed when I was thirteen. My father…I was younger when he died.”
Both of his parents. I know what that feels like.
“Can I ask…how?”
“She got sick, but my father…” His voice catches. “Boating accident, not long after I told him what she was doing to me. I was at the hospital when they took him off life support.”
His admission stuns me into silence. I didn’t expect him to voice it, and yet…there’s a black ocean of what he’s not saying.
Reaching for it now would only pull us both under.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He lifts his head, eyes aimed my way but shying from contact. “I’m not that kid, Novalee. I promise you, I’m okay.”
I don’t believe him, the lie he tells himself.
Maybe to him, it’s not a lie.
Sometimes, it’s easier to lie to yourself than to anyone else.
He turns his cereal bowl a slow quarter-turn, and the shutters come down, gentler this time.