Page 80 of Reverie
It’s been weeks since my blowup in the war room, and my temperament has been insufferable, even to Winter. I know it, even though she’s never said so outright. I think the parts of her that will make an excellent clinical psychologist recognize that I need space, not smothering.
Even though I never want her to see me as weak, I know she sees my pain.
“Mmhmm,” she says in an even tone. After a beat, she says, “That must have been some nightmare, H. You were screaming.” I feel her move, and the closer she gets, the tighter I screw my eyes shut.
She puts her hand on my jaw and tilts my face up, not letting me avoid her gaze, so I slide my eyes open. Even though she tries, she can’t hide the concern in her expression.
With gentle movements, she gingerly lowers herself to the ground across from me.
The silence between us urges me to command that she say something. Anything. But also, I want her to say nothing at all.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks.
“Is this a session, Winter? Should I pull out my Amex?” My voice is harsh, and I watch as her lips tighten.
Get a grip.
Inhaling, I say, “I’m sorry, Sunbeam.”
We’re silent for a few seconds, but then she says, “I forgive you.” Then she nudges my thigh when I shift into a more comfortable position on the floor. “This time.”
I grab her hand and kiss the back of it.
After a moment, she sighs and says, “I’m ready to talk to you.”
I look up, quirking an eyebrow.
“About our fight back home, before you left to meet Misha,” she clarifies.
I bite the inside of my cheek before saying, “I wasn’t aware we were fighting.”
She gives me a droll look. “Yeah, okay.” She pulls her hand away.
We’ve been laying low for three weeks. I fully expected Morris Winthrope to try to break into Misha’s compound assoon as the time was up on his demand, but things have been eerily quiet.
He didn’t show up with a tank to take us down like Misha did to his people who invaded Amelia Manor. There weren’t any drone bombings.
Not even a blip on the radar.
So as the days have rolled on, I’ve felt theticktockof the countdown to our doom getting louder and louder.
The quieter my surroundings get, the more it feels like I’m losing control.
Control.
“Hunter,” she begins, “I know you’re hyper-concerned about my safety. I get it—especially given everything that’s happened over the last several weeks. Or, I guess, the last several months. The year?” She straightens her back.
“But you cannoteverlock me away ever again. You cannot shut me out. You have to let me be a partner in things that impact not just you but me too. The rest of our….”
She waves her hands in the air before lifting them in a hopeless shrug.
“I think the word you’re searching for is ‘family,’ Sunbeam.” I lean forward, cupping her cheek. “And I’m sorry that I upset you.”
But I’m not sorry for what I did. I’d do it again if given the chance.
“You’ve got to let go of control, baby. You’re only hurting yourself by trying to orchestrate the direction of life,” Winter says.
She puts a palm on each side of my neck. “If there’s anything I’ve learned in my decade-plus of therapy and classes, it’s this: You can’t control the future. There’s no such thing as a guaranteed outcome. You just have to do the next thing that feels right and keep moving forward.”