She started taking sleeping pills while we were dating. She said she developed insomnia, but I think Brady created it.
She nods her head.
“Come on. Let’s get you to bed.” Standing up, I stretch out my hand.
She stares at it and hesitates, only for a second. Then, she slides her fingers into my grasp without a word.
I help her stand up, and I keep her hand held in mine while she leads the way to her bedroom.
“Becca, why do you stay here?” I ask her, wondering why she doesn’t just live at home.
Her body goes rigid, and I pray she doesn’t shut me out again.
She whispers, “I can’t go there anymore.”
My brows slam together. “What do you mean?”
She opens her bedroom door, and I wish my room looked like this. A four-poster bed sits in the middle, like it’s fit for a queen. And I guess it really is perfect for her.
She leaves the light off, the only light coming from the walk-in closet. “It’s destroyed. Everything’s broken, shattered, wrecked. It’s too dangerous. There’s glass everywhere.”
I jerk my head back. “Someone vandalized it?”
She climbs under the covers, and I sit on top of them next to her.
“Yeah, kind of,” she says, refusing to meet my eyes again. “Lie with me?”
As tempting as that is, she might regret this in the morning.
“I don’t think that’s such a good id—”
“Please,” she begs.
My head is nodding before I even realize it.
My lack of willpower around her is pathetic.
Walking over to the free side of the bed, I kick my shoes off and slide into her bed, fully clothed, and ask, “Did they catch him?”
She laughs a cold, dead laugh. “No. I never pressed charges, Callum.” She turns to me, and her blue-gray eyes lock on to mine. “Because I’m the one who did it. I can’t go back there because my dad’s blood is still smeared on the wall of his office, where I found him. I can’t go back there because everywhere I look, my parents are there, haunting me. I can’t go back there. I won’t. It will just stay like that … forever. Shattered and broken, unfixable.”
My eyes are watering when she finishes, and I lay my head down on the pillow, staring up at her ceiling. “I’m sorry, Becca. I should have been here for you.”
She scoffs. “It wouldn’t have made a difference. He would still be dead, I would still be here, and you would still be you, trying to fix me.”
“Becca …” I whisper her name. “I’m not trying to fix you. I can’t do that for you. Only you can do that for yourself. But I can be here for you. For the times you succeed and fail and bend and break, I can be by your side. That’s all I want. That’s all I’ve ever wanted, love.”
A whimper comes from her, followed by a gentle shaking of the bed, and I know she’s crying.
I roll over, seeing her hands on her face, muffling her cries. Immediately, I move to her, pulling her into my chest, letting the sobs soak my shirt, wrapping my arms around her and refusing to let go.
I hold her, rub her back, and whisper to her, “Everything will be okay,” as she shatters even more.
Eventually, after maybe minutes or an hour, she settles down, her breathing normalizing.
Silence pounds in my ears.
“Callum?” Her voice is so broken and painful. She looks up and holds my eyes for a second before they drop to my chest. “I’m so sorry. For earlier. I-I ran because I was … scared. I am scared. I’m so terrified constantly. And I don’t want to be.” Her eyes find mine again, no walls, no barriers.
