Page 48 of Love in Pieces

But just as quickly as the happiness comes, impending doom slowly settles on my chest. With Sam returning in a week, the weight of all the what-ifs slowly overtakes my mind, body, and every move I make. I can’t sleep, and when I do, I wake up from nightmares. The screaming in my dreams doesn’t transfer to real life. I only know because no one comes to check on me in the middle of the night.

I wake up so hot that I’m drowning in sweat. My racing heart tears through my chest and my ears. And when I finally calm down enough, I find myself wishing I could curl up next to something solid, someone steady to ground me and tell me everything will be okay even though nothing about the future is promised. So, I push my back against the wall of my bedroom, draw my knees to my chest, and lower my forehead to my knees, hugging them so tightly I think I might break.

By Wednesday, sleeplessness has turned into a painful routine. After tossing and turning until midnight, I’ve had enough. This isn’t working. The inside of my head is like a pinball machine, everything bouncing around all at once, bright lights flashing like warning signals, all the noises too much. There’s no way to calm down long enough to fall asleep if the thoughts won't drain past the bumpers. The hum of the ceiling fan above me usually lulls me to sleep, but tonight, it’s just another noise keeping me awake.

I get up for some water without bothering to turn on any lights. The darkness and quiet of the kitchen are serene. Enough to help me relax a little, but not enough. Not for sleep.

An idea flashes in my mind, a crazy one, but it hovers ever so slightly before I shove it away. Hard. Nope. Not a chance. No way in hell.

But the thought lingers. And I squeeze my eyes shut before feather-light feet carry me to the door. His door.

It’s cracked just enough to see the bright flicker of his TV in the dark room. The slight creak of the door forces me to pause in my tracks, breath held tightly in place, making me rethink whatever the hell it is I’m about to do. A bare-chested Dallas sleeps soundly on top of his comforter, the view alone giving me heart palpitations. I think hard and fast about my next move. My heart screams at me to continue, but my gut says turn around. I take one last look, savoring the sight of him, before turning to close the door. But it’s too late.

“Abby?” he asks, voice gravelly. He squints, straining to look across the dimly lit room. “Are you okay?” He props himself up on his elbows.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Sorry. I can’t sleep. My mind is racing a mile a minute.”

He takes a breath, pauses to process, and rubs his eyes. “Um, do you want to talk about it?”

I look between Dallas and my bedroom door. “No. I don’t know. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I came in here. Goodnight.” I start to turn around again but Dallas moves to sit on the edge of his bed.

“Wait.” He stands, and as if he read my mind, he pulls back the covers. “Take the bed. I’ll take the floor.”

My body won't move. But still, Dallas picks up a pillow, grabs a spare blanket, and creates his makeshift bed on the floor. When I still haven’t moved, he nods toward the empty bed. “Come here,” he says calmly.

I take a deep breath and force my feet to move. Slipping them in under the still warm comforter, his scent—I can’t quite place it—engulfs me, my nerves instantly slowing to a quiescent place.

Dallas shuffles on the floor momentarily before clicking the TV off. The now silent room seems to amplify my still tossing and turning body. Laying on my back has never been my favorite position but try anyway and immediately hate it. I try both of my sides, but something doesn’t feel right. I go wide like a starfish on my stomach before pulling a knee closer to my chest. I groan internally before trying my side again.

I’m not sure how long I spend changing positions, but I’m still staring at the wall when the mattress dips behind me.

Dallas places a soft hand on my exposed arm. “Can I?”

I don’t need more context to understand his question. “Please,” I practically beg.

He slips under the covers and slides an arm around my stomach, pulling us tightly together. The warmth of his bare chest is a pleasant welcome against my cool skin. I’ve never been warm-bodied. Dallas feels like a furnace comparatively. Us, like this, something within me takes hold deep in my soul. The raging voices in my head are now a mere whisper. My fiery nerves dissipate into a low smolder. And most of all, I no longer feel like screaming. My head, my body, they’re calm, quiet, steady. With Dallas behind me, sleep takes me faster than it has in a very long time.

When I wake in the morning, Dallas is still asleep. A comforting hand rests on my forearm to let me know he’s still there. Even relaxed, I can still see each muscle, toned and sculpted from years of baseball. Pulling my eyes from his body is a task.

Last night’s sleep was single-handedly the best sleep I have ever gotten. I’m refreshed, my mind at ease. A smile creeps up my face at the thought.

As I try to slip from his delicate touch, he stirs. He takes a deep breath and rubs his face. “Abby?” he asks, peeking with one eye open. “Morning. You sleep okay?”

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I chuckle, letting my smile grow apparent. “I haven’t slept that well in a very long time.”

He reaches out to rest his hand on mine, our fingers slowly twisting together into a comforting grip, but I pause as I realize what I’m doing. “Sorry.” I slip my hand out of his, the cold air a stark contrast to his warm touch, and then curse myself for letting go. “You know, I do have to say, you are an absolute furnace at night,” I say, quickly changing the subject.

He laughs. “Yeah, sorry. I think it’s genetic.” He starts getting up. “Why don’t I make us some breakfast? I’ve got practice today but other than that, it’ll probably be a pretty chill day.”

***

In the few days following, Dallas and I have fallen into a welcome habit. We start in our own beds, but I always end up making the slow trek into his room. I can’t sleep unless I’m next to him now. I’m trying to give myself some grace. I’ve craved for someone to care about me as soft and delicate as he has for such a long time. I’ve become infatuated with the little things he does. How he makes his coffee. The way he runs his fingers through his hair. The way his eyes squint ever so slightly when he’s really listening to someone talk. And to my surprise, I’m wishing for more. More conversation, more touch, more lust. On one hand, it terrifies me. On the other, at random times during the day, I find myself happy like the sort of calm peace you feel when you tip your head to the sky and the sun warms your face after a long winter.

Dread hits me hard on Friday. Not only is Sam coming home tomorrow, but it’s also my birthday. I haven’t celebrated since Dad died. It just hasn’t been the same. Sam also didn’t help the situation. We celebrated my birthday the first year we were together with dinner, but by this time the following year, he’d completely changed into the asshole he is now. Just another piece of myself I’ve lost over the years. It’s also the reason I avoid telling anyone when my birthday is. Meredith has accepted the fact that I refuse to fully celebrate it. At the same time, she also refuses to ignore it. So, when my phone rings this morning, I hesitantly pick it up. I jut out of Dallas’ room and answer with a tired “Hello?”

“Happy Birthday!” she yells as I pull the phone away from my ear. “You know I can’t just leave you alone about this.”

“Good morning to you, too, and thank you.”

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