Page 32 of Echoes in the Storm
“You regret coming home.” I round the counter to take the seat beside him.
Duke shrugs, his face blank as he stares vacantly at the counter. “I regret a lot of things.”
“Holding on to that anger will only destroy you,” I say quietly, almost as though I might spook him back into silence if I speak too loudly. “It’s not healthy.”
He turns his head, his shoulders hunched as he regards me. “What is it you’re holding on to, Cam?”
I lift a finger, waggling it at him as I set my glass down again. “Nuh-uh, mister. You haven’t actually answered my question yet.”
“Why I sleep on the floor?”
“Right.” I set my hands on my thighs and patiently wait him out.
Duke runs a finger along the patterns in the counter top, his lips twitching as he seems to think it over. “The short answer is nightmares. I don’t know why, but when I’m on the floor, I feel more secure, as though there aren’t as many points of vulnerability.”
I rest an elbow on the counter, and prop my head in my hand. “What happens in your nightmares?” What makes him feel as though he’s constantly open to attack?
“Stupid shit.” He laughs bitterly.
“Duke …” I reach out with my free hand and cover one of his. Interestingly, he doesn’t pull away. “It’s not stupid if it bothers you that much.”
“It is when the things don’t even make sense.” His thumb touches the side of my hand. “I dream of random crap, like my dead buddies sitting point on the slabs that pinned me down, shooting anyone who tries to get me out. I dream of faceless men smothering me until I can’t breathe. An endless desert with a mirage of a cargo plane on the horizon that I can never seem to reach, no matter how long I spend dragging my broken body towards it.”
“Guilt,” I whisper. “They all signify what you told me—that you wish you could have done something to fight back, to have helped.”
He swallows, jerking his shoulders as he slides his hand from under mine. “Doesn’t change anything, knowing, does it?”
“What about help now you’re back?” I ask, before downing the last of my wine and rising to pour another. “Mental health facilities? Surely you get some sort of assistance?”
“I do.” He follows me to the fridge, pulling a bottle of water out after me. “Got myself a referral to a counsellor. Not sure if it’ll help, but gotta try something, you know? First session is in two weeks.”
“Sometimes an outside perspective helps. Like, they see things you can’t because you’re so used to viewing them the same way.”
“Maybe.”
I stand with my new wine in my hand as Duke casually uncaps the bottle and chugs half the contents. He’s really got to stop doing that around me, otherwise I’m not going to be held responsible for the inappropriate things it causes me to do, like, I don’t know, lick his neck? Seriously … the way that throat works …
“You okay?” He smirks, clearly aware I’m embarrassed that he’s caught me staring.
“Fine.”
“So.” He re-caps the bottle and puts it back in the fridge … with the others.
Ugh. Keep it separate when it’s been drunk from. Always separate.“So?”
“I told you mine …”
Shit.So he has. My palms slicken with sweat as my heart threatens to crush my lungs in its escape from my chest.
Duke’s smile fades, his eyes softening. “Hey, look. If it’s too much—”
“No.” I throw back the glass of wine, setting the empty vessel in the sink. “Let’s do this.”
Who better to face this with than a guy who doesn’t know me, can’t judge how I react based on who I was before? Somebody who’s not as emotionally invested as the people I’ve slowly pushed away over the years: my mum, Dad, even Jared.
He still appears apprehensive, as though he’s not entirely sure what he’s set in motion as I walk past. Hell,I’mnot sure what he’s set in motion. I’ve stayed out of that room for close to two years now. I’ve avoided it at any costs, all while fiercely protecting its contents.
I stop before the door, my chest thick with regret as I reach for the handle. My fingers make contact, yet before I can turn the old brass knob, a warm, calloused hand covers my own.