Page 108 of A Little Crush
“I’m okay.”
“Liar,” I argue. “Let me get you some painkillers, or?—”
“I’m okay,” she repeats. “Seriously.”
She isn’t, though I can’t put my finger on what’s bothering her. Not quite. Something tells me it has little to do with her broken hymen, though. “You should come back to bed with me.”
She shakes her head. “Can’t.”
“Why not?”
“It’s just…getting to be that time again. You know?”
I frown.
“5:34 a.m.” She sobers. “I almost thought I’d sleep through it this time, but…” Her shoulder raises a few inches. “Try telling my brain that, right? I’m awake now, and my OCD is rearing its ugly head, so here I am, trying not to spiral. I wish there was a way to just…ignore it.”
Ignore it. The time. I want to ask why she’s so obsessed with that particular number. 5:34 a.m. Why it matters. Why she can’t sleep. Then, it hits me. Archer’s death. It happened before dawn. He was on his way to the airport for an early flight. It must be the reason that particular time is significant.And I hate that I didn’t know. That I didn’t notice Rory’s odd sleep schedule. We’ve shared a hotel room several times. I should’ve noticed. Shouldn’t I?
“That’s when your parents got the call, isn’t it.” It isn’t a question. It’s a fact.
“That’s when I looked at the clock after they woke me up to tell me to get dressed so we could go to the hospital,” she clarifies. “5:34 a.m.” Her sigh is heavy and forced. “When I close my eyes, I can still see the bright green numbers. Haven’t slept past that time since. It’s like my internal clock knows, you know?” She shrugs again, choosing to stare out the dark window. “Well, my internal clock and my OCD.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I know it’s not real, but my brain keeps telling me that if I sleep past it, if I’m not awake and alert and waiting for 5:34 a.m., it’ll trigger another horrible phone call or something, and even though I know it's not true,” she repeats, as if she’s already caught in the loop, “my body still decides that having a panic attack is the best way to handle it.”
“So, what do you do?”
With a shuddered breath, she glances at the clock on the microwave, her fingers digging deeper into Hades’ scruff along his back. “I sit and stare at the clock, trying not to hyperventilate as I relive the longest sixty seconds of my life,”—she gulps—“praying the phone won’t ring like it did that night.”
Understanding washes over me as I stand here, helpless. She fights this every morning? Every. Fucking. Morning. And I had no idea?
I move closer to the unlit fireplace, so I can reacquaint myself with the girl I held the night her brother died. Because let’s be honest. I haven’t seen her as the Squeaks I once knew since she reappeared for Maverick’s wedding. Sometimes, I forget they’re one and the same. That the littlegirl who followed me around is the woman I slept with tonight. Like right now, when I’m caught between feeling helpless and determined to take away her pain and discomfort like I’ve done a hundred times before. And I have. I have taken her pain and discomfort a hundred times before. So, what’s stopping me from doing it again?
Careful not to step on Hades, I hook one arm beneath her knees and the other around her upper back, pick her up, twist around, and plop back onto the chair with Rory cradled in my lap. She’s wearing my clothes. A pair of boxers and a T-shirt she must’ve stolen from my room when she snuck out of bed this morning. The realization soothes my fucking soul and eases the irrational guilt hanging over me from not knowing about this particular compulsion until this morning. “Let me sit with you,” I murmur. This time, her sigh is less forced and more content as she rests her head against the crook of my neck.
“Mmm,” she hums. “You smell good.”
I kiss the top of her head and breathe in deep, appreciating the scent of my cologne clinging to her hair. It might not be as addictive as her natural scent, but the idea of marking her, even in as subtle of a way as my cologne, makes me want to puff out my chest and pound my fists against it.
Mine.
The word feels foreign, yet so fucking natural, I’m not sure how to wrap my head around it. So, I don’t. Instead, I focus on the woman in my lap, anxious to help or at least slow down the chaotic loop her mind is stuck in.
“Are you tired?” I ask.
“Exhausted,” she admits.
“Close your eyes.”
“Jax.”
“You don’t need to go to sleep,” I argue. “You only need to close your eyes.” She stays quiet as I slowly run my hands upand down her spine, her body relaxing more and more with every passing minute. I want to tell her nothing bad will happen. That she’s safe, and I’ve got her, and her family’s fine, too. But I know it’ll only feed her compulsion, making it stronger and more stubborn until she feels like she has no choice but to wake up earlier and earlier in preparation for the time she dreads until sleep is nothing but a luxury.
I’m not sure how much time ticks by when Rory’s breathing becomes faster instead of slower. It’s as if she can feel the minutes bringing her closer to 5:34 a.m., despite refusing to give in and check the official time.
“Do you remember when I told you I wanted to coach instead of going pro?” I say in hopes of distracting her.
