Page 210 of Chaos

“Ah. Better let my parents know.”

I wrench my hand away. “I’ll get right on that.”

I start towards the door only to stop halfway. Turning on my heel, I stomp the half a foot back to Finn, stoop to kiss his forehead, roll my eyes at his smug expression before trying to leave again.

Third time lucky, I actually succeed.

Finn’s parents are right where I left them. Downstairs, lingering by the door, holding the bags they hurriedly packed when they got the worst call imaginable in the middle of the night and hauled ass out of Texas.

“My room is all the way up,” I tell them, pointing back up the staircase I just descended. “The sheets are clean and I emptied out a drawer in case you need it.”

I don’t mention the draught.

Mostly because there isn’t one.

“Thanks, Lottie.” Mr. Akello—Mukasa, he’s told me to call him more than once, but I swear every time I even think about using his first name, the ghost of my grandmother hisses in my ear, scolding me for my lack of manners—shoots me a smile. Bestowing a pat upon my shoulder, he heads upstairs in search of the room he and his wife will be sharing for who knows how long.

Lux offered them a guest cabin, but I figured they’d want to be close to Finn so I told them to take my room. It’s not like I’ve been sleeping there the past week.

It’s not like I’ve been sleeping at all.

Finn was only half right in his accusation. I find my way into his room at night, sure. But I don’tsleep. Not even close. I lay awake. Usually wrapped in a stolen hoodie, breathing in the lingering scent like it’s my own personal brand of Xanax. Trying to stave off the nightmares I shouldn’t be having, I feel silly having, I feelselfishhaving because nothing happened to me.

As Mrs. Akello—Namara,fuck—follows her husband, I absently wonder if the nightmares will get better or worse now that Finn isn’t laid up in hospital anymore. Now that I don’t have to listen to doctors and nurses and every flavor of medical professional in existence rave about how lucky he is, over and over and over again. How it could've been so much worse.

I don’t need to hear that. Iknow. I’ve been to a meeting every day this week because I can’t stop thinking about just that, because I am desperate to stop thinking about it and I happen to be extremely familiar with the most efficient way to shut your mind off.

“Stay busy,” Silas has grumbled at me more than once, and I’ve been taking that advice.

Really, really taking it. Staying really, really busy.

Like right now. A mere five seconds alone in the living room, five seconds of silence, of standing still and glowering at the dense sea of flowers covering the island counter that serve absolutely no purpose other than making my eyes itch and do not in any way aid my boyfriend’s recovery, and I spur into action. I’ve already spent the entire morning cleaning the house—after spending the entire week erasing any evidence of the break-in—so I stride towards the kitchen.

In my desperate need to dosomething, I decide I should cook, nevermind the fact I can’t cook, so maybe it’s a miracle rather than a wrench thrown in my plans that when I open the fridge, I find it fully stocked with ready-cooked meals, neatly stacked in Tupperwares I swear are older than me.

Snagging the first thing I see, I chuck a lasagna in the oven to warm up. And then I dig around in the freezer until I find garlic bread and heat that up too. I grab cutlery and set it on the counter, fingers dancing across the freshly repaired marble. I swear to God, I’m one millisecond away from doing something completely ridiculous like whipping up a batch of homemade lemonade when slow, laboured footsteps on the stairs interrupt my slightly manic dinner round-up.

“What the fuck?” I scowl at Finn as he shuffles into the living room. “You’re supposed to be in bed.”

“I’ve been in bed for days,” he retorts with a childish whine. “I hate beds.”

Rushing towards him, I catch him by the elbow and tug him towards the nearest sofa. “Your stitches—”

Finn kisses his teeth. “Can handle a few steps.”

Grunting as he carefully sits down, he slouches with a long exhale. Head tipped against the back of the sofa, he watches me through hooded eyes—exhausted eyes, though fuck knows he won’t admit it—as I slide a pillow beneath his neck, another beneath his limply hanging arm, tug a blanket over his lap too.

The quirk of his mouth is lazy, satisfied. “I like this.”

Hunched over him the way I am, I assume he’s talking about the straight-shot view down my tank, but I still ask, “What?”

“You fussing over me. It’s very cute.”

“Shut up.”

“I should get shot more often.”

It’s not just me who hisses at him to quit this time—his mom does too, skipping down the last few stairs to gently slap her son upside the head. Tutting at him, she moves towards the kitchen right as the oven timer dings.

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