Page 66 of Sweet Nothings
I see his face, looking at me, asking me what I’m going to do. I see her head lying against the pillow, but she isn’t sleeping. No. She’s looking at me with her large, round eyes, asking why I did this to her.
“No.” I shake my head, squeezing my eyes shut, willing the images to disappear. “No!” I scream. “Stop!” I want to get them the fuck out, but they refuse to leave. I don’t know why this happens time and time again with them just staring at me, begging me to fix what’s permanently broken.
Is there something wrong with me? Did I truly fuck up in my decision to let her go? Is this a choice I’m going to have to live with for the rest of my life? Is this the price I paid for my sin?
The echoing sound of the pen scribbling my name across the thin paper attached to the hospital clipboard rings in my ears, and I swear, it’s all it takes for my heart to stop beating. Just like hers.
Good.
I fucking deserve it.
TWENTY
Lennon’s screams immediately wake me up. My eyes snap open and I’m gasping for air when my head jerks away from my pillow. My back is turned on him, but I immediately feel him stiffening behind me.
I quickly roll over. His back is facing me now, and he’s curled in on himself. The sharp planes and ridges of solid muscle strain against his tattooed skin. I swallow my panic when he releases another scream.
“Lennon,” I whisper, pulling him to face me. But he doesn’t move. He’s frozen solid. A statue. I sit up and lean over him, urging him to turn around. The death grip he has on his pillow is merciless. White-knuckled, he clutches his pillow as if it is the only thing keeping him afloat.
I say his name again, but this time it comes out quivering and unstable. The blood drains from my face. I’m lost and confused as to what’s happening. The veins in his neck are swollen, and his jaw is clenched tight.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, tugging on his arm again, but he still doesn’t answer. He doesn’t flinch at my touch. The screams eventually stop after a few seconds of my hand on his arm. At first, I wonder if he’s fallen back asleep. His hand still grips thepillow. I lean over him farther, noticing his eyes blinking slowly. He’s staring at the wall. But despite the quiet that’s descended upon our room, Lennon’s body hasn’t caught up. His chest rises and falls rapidly. Heavy breaths push out of his lungs faster than he’s able to take them in.
“Breathe, Lennon,” I soothe him. “I’m right here. I’m here.”
Oxygen catches in the back of my throat when he jolts. Twisting, he rolls over to face me. His shoulders are hunched, and for the first time ever, I see fear in his eyes. He’s scared and vulnerable. It’s a strange sensation. Lennon Harding commands every room he walks into. Brooding and moody, clients both fear him yet admire him.
But all I see in front of me is a man haunted by the night. Haunted by the memory of a nightmare still alive in his mind. Panic stricken eyes stare back at me.
“Tell me something good,” he chokes out.
“What?” I whisper, quickly swiping my tongue across my lips. My body is humming. Wide-eyed, I look at him, not knowing what to expect.
“Tell me something good,” he repeats, pleading as he places his hands around my face. “I need to hear something fucking good. Something sweet.”
His breaths are shallow and rattled.
“Sweet?” I ask, my heart sinking into my stomach.
The sound of him uttering the word he’d whispered into my ear the night we met stirs something inside me. It’s like a raging storm. The wind rattles between my stomach and my mind. Maybe he does remember. Maybe he remembers every single fucking second of that night as I do. Every touch. Every kiss. Every word he’d whispered that night.
I hold my breath as he pulls my face to his until our foreheads meet. His rushed hot bouts of breathing fill the tiny space between our mouths.
He squeezes his eyes shut. “Please,” he begs on a whisper. “I need to hear something sweet.”
“Um.” I scramble to think of something sweet, flipping through the catalog of memories I keep locked away. “Okay, I heard about this man in Italy who graduated from college at the age of ninety-six. He grew up poor and served in World War Two. He never expected to make it, but he finally lived out his dream of going to school. He achieved his lifelong dream.”
A small smile lifts the corner of my mouth, remembering how my roommate from college told me this story one night when we were drunk and studying in the library. I’ll never forget the way her face lit with pure joy at the time.
But my smile doesn’t last long because Lennon still hasn’t relaxed. His shoulders dramatically lift with every breath, but this time he lifts his gaze. His eyes meet mine as he runs his hands down my cheeks before feathering them along the length of my neck.
“Another one.”
Seeing his desperation, I wrap both my hands around his, keeping him from pulling away. A torrent of waves float in his eyes, begging for an anchor to keep him close. I press the tips of his fingers against my pulse. I’m hoping this will bring him back to the room with me.
“The other day,” I start, “I was walking down Newbury Street and saw this man holding up a cardboard sign asking for money or food. He looked like he’d been standing on that same intersection for weeks. But I found myself grinning when this woman came up to him and handed him a grocery bag and a large reusable bottle filled with water. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone so grateful.”
Lennon’s breathing slows. The effects of whatever nightmare he had is now fading. I release his hands. He runs them down across each of my collarbones and over my chest. As if he can’tdecide where to begin and where to stop, he keeps going. Down my arms, across my chest. Everywhere he can reach, his hands go. He touches me as if he’s trying to memorize me. As if I might disappear. His hands explore me as if it’s the first time he’s touching me. Like he can’t believe I’m here. An image his mind has created to play a trick on him.