Page 42 of Reverie

“H, you’re being really unfair.” Leo pulls my mom closer to him, and she sniffles but squares her shoulders.

“No, Leo, he’s right to be livid. He really is. And I’m sorry, so—Hunter. I’m so, so sorry.”

I stare at her hard, but I don’t see her. All I see are the people who hurt me, who tortured me at the command and blessing of Benjamin Brigham. I see her dying and the devastation her death caused. I see how I ran away from all the things that terrified me and hurt me, and I see her here…standing tall…having lived a life without those terrors.

While I was stuck in Hell.

I swipe the forgotten roses off the bench, crushing them a bit in the process. One rose hangs at a nearly ninety-degree angle, pointing downward and signaling its soon-approaching death.

“I wish you would have stayed dead,” I say. Taking in Leo’s disapproving stare and my mother’s teary face, I walk away from both of them.

Sure, she wants to explain. But it will be on my terms when I allow it.

Control. I’m in control of this.

Even in control of silencing the dead.

SIX

WINTER

Eventually, another nurse came into my room to wake me and remove my IV. She tried to make small talk with me, but I was so out of it I didn’t have much to say.

And I wasn’t out of it because of meds. I was out of it because my heart was in the active process of breaking.

Another person, also dressed in black and sporting guns, ushered me to the wing where Hunter and I were to stay. Ella has a room down the hall, as do August, Veronica, and Leo. I wanted to smile at the small dog bed in the corner of the room, which Kitty took no time jumping into and passing right back out. But the fact that the room smelled like Hunter, but he was nowhere to be found, caused another wave of tears to fall.

When I saw the bouquet of roses, Knock Outs, just like the ones he got me on our day date, the tears turned into sobs. I pushed the crystal vase they adorned to a far corner of the room.

A sad, scary truth that I’ve had to face in the last several hours is this: Hunter Brigham might never let me all the way in, and I’m not sure I can live with that.

Or that Ishouldlive with that.

Veronica’s question rings in my ear. Should I trust Hunter?

My heart knows that Hunter would never hurt me. He’d never intentionally put me in harm’s way. But the reality is that his life is dangerous. He has to see that. And because danger surrounds him, it’s imperative that he is transparent with me.

Except he’s doing the exact opposite.

You know what you have to do. You have to be honest, Winter.

It’s nighttime—dinner time—and my stomach cramps so violently from hunger that it amplifies my nausea. Still, I seek out August, because if nothing else, I need to see how he’s doing.

When I reach August’s room, I listen outside his door for a moment, trying to gauge if there’s any movement on the other side. When I turn the handle and peek in, there’s a lump on the bed under a single sheet.

August.

Movement in the corner of the room makes me jump, but the woman who rises from the chair puts her finger against her lips and motions for me to exit with her.

She wears black hospital scrubs that don’t hide the full sleeves of tribal tattoos. In the hallway lighting, the first thing I notice besides her dark waist-length hair is the cultural tattoo on her face. The vertical lines on her chin and ornamental markings above her eyebrows are the most beautiful art I’ve seen.

She’s stunning.

“You must be Winter,” she says. “I’m Halle. I was a nurse before I came here.”

I clear my throat and stick my hand out to shake hers.

“How is he?” I ask.