Page 47 of Your Rule to Break

I sit next to her and lightly put a hand on her back. “EJ, what can I do?”

She looks at me over one of her kneecaps, and her paled face breaks me. It looks like she’s in agonizing pain. I put pressure on her back as she breathes deep—I feel her hold air in and slowly let it out.

“Tell me you’re real. This is real.”

I squeeze her shoulders. “I’m real. You’re here with me. This is real.” I say it like I'm trying to convince someone. “Did you have a nightmare?”

“Sometimes my life is a nightmare,” she answers, which leaves me even more confused. “It’s my brain. My stupid fucking brain.”

“I think you have a beautiful brain,” I insist, tucking a curl behind her ear.

She takes her time to compose herself. “If you could hear it, you wouldn’t say that, ” she says, her voice dripping with sadness. “It’s not nightmares. It’s my obsessive-compulsive disorder, OCD. But not OCD like I like to keep things clean or neat and organized.”

Emilie leans back against the wall—I keep my eyes on her but don’t say anything. I want to give her the room to keep going.

“It’s intrusive thoughts. These things that my brain tricks me into thinking are true or are possible. Sometimes they are so horrible. I’ll wake from a dead sleep and just fall into this loop.” She wipes tears from her eyes with the back of her hand, which I immediately grab and squeeze.

“Like today, in the car, I thought about driving into oncoming traffic. What would happen. What it would be like. How much it would hurt. The sounds that would fill me ears. I woke up and felt like my heart wasn’t beating, that it just stopped. That’s one of the most common.”

God. That sounds terrifying. Now I'm thinking about the night that I called her, she said it was a nightmare. It wasn’t. It was her thinking she was dying or not alive or something else horrible.

“People make it out to be this quirky personality thing, but it’s like your brain telling you fucking horror stories of hypotheticals most of the time.” Her voice trails off and she cries into her hands.

I stand in front of her, my hand on one of her shoulders until she looks up at me. Emilie’s hazel eyes are dark, red rimmed, and wide. I put my hands out for her to grab. When she takes them, I help her stand andwrap her up in a hug that’s borderline too tight. I think about her, alone in her apartment, pacing, checking her pulse. The pain she deals with and doesn’t say anything.

“You probably think I’m crazy,” she murmurs into my chest.

I’m alternating between rubbing her arms and holding her tight to me. “Absolutely fucking not. I think you’re strong. I can’t imagine what it’s like to feel the way you do.”

She leans back a little, catches my eyes with hers. “You think I’m strong?”

“I’ve always thought that. You've always been a force, but joke’s on me—you’re battling yourself, every day, on top of everything else I see you do.” I put a hand in her hair, putting a curl around my finger.

“A force.” She doesn’t sound like she believes me.

“I’m here. This is real. And you, Emilie James, are a force.” I kiss her on the forehead before surrounding her body with mine.

Fuck, they say everyone has things going on you can’t see, but I never thought about this with Emilie. She has always seemed so put together, accomplished. She’s still those things, but now, it’s much more impressive.

If I felt protective before, there’s no words for what I feel now. Like my only goal should be to take away some of the pain and hurt she’s feeling. I want her to know how incredible she is.

No matter how much her brain tries to convince her otherwise.

“Can we go back to sleep? In my bed this time?” Emilie’s voice is delicate and unsure.

“Whatever you want.” And I mean it.

We gather the blankets and get her bed back in order. I let her show me what side she sleeps on, and I get under the blankets on the other side of her king bed.

She sets up one of the iPads on her bedside table.

“Do you care if I play something? It will help me calm down and fall asleep.”

I think it’s adorable and proactive she keeps charged iPads in her emergency items stash. “Whatever you need.”

Emilie puts on Friends, which must be one of her comfort shows, and snuggles into my side.

I stay up until the rhythm of her breathing tells me she’s asleep.