Page 67 of Deja New
THIRTY-TWO
She found Jack, as she’d hoped she would, sorting through what looked like hundreds of cookbooks. She found that equal parts commendable and exasperating.How many books about pudding does any one family need?
He turned his head—his back was to the kitchen doorway—and nodded. “Hey.”
“Hello, Jack. Please don’t leap to your feet and prepare me a nutritionally sound prenatal snack. I’m just here for the orange juice.” Which was one of the silliest things to drink when you wanted to sleep—hospitals kept it on hand because it got a patient’s blood sugar up in a hurry—but oh, well.
“Wasn’t gonna,” he muttered.
“Oh. Then this just got awkward.”
A muffled snort. She stepped to the fridge, got the juice, ignored the mustard (the poor boy was going through enoughwithout having to witnessthathorror show), poured herself a glass, sipped, set it down, went to him, touched his shoulder. After a moment, he looked up at her. He was sitting cross-legged in front of the jam-packed bookshelf, and it might have been the overhead lighting, but he looked haunted. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”
She smiled.God, the bags under his eyes.“That’s my line, Jack. Can I help you? Will you tell me?”
“I’m okay.”
“Bullshit. Which I say with deepest respect as a guest in your kitchen.”
He blinked up at her. “I’m okay. You’re the one who should go and sleep, you’re making another person.”
“I can do more than one thing at once. Well, sometimes. I’m sorry to pester, and I know we only just met, but I’d like to help you.”
“I’m o-kay.”
Sure you are.“If I can guess what’s bothering you, will you confirm?”
A shrug. But this time, he didn’t immediately go back to pretending to read a cookbook.
She sat on the floor beside him. “It’s not that you can’t sleep. It’s that you’re afraid to sleep.”
Silence.
“You don’t want to sleep because you’re having bloody, violent, terrifying dreams. So being awake is good, right? But it’s a problematic long-term solution.”
“Everybody has nightmares.”
She nodded. “Oh, yes. And lots of people fight them the wayyou are—by trying to avoid them. Or they go the other way, self-medicating with Ambien or alcohol so they go down deep and don’t dream.”
“I can’t do that, though.” He immediately went red, like he knew he’d showed his hand and was now resigned to her taking advantage.
“That’s right, you can’t. And you’re clever to know it. Access, for one thing, is a problem. You’re the youngest in a house full of people who’d bust you in a cold minute, that’s another one. So you’re stuck with coffee, which is why you’ve slipped caffeine into every dessert for the last three days.”
“Everybody likes triple coffee cheesecake. And mocha brownies with coffee frosting. And coffee meringues. And coffee cinnamon rolls. And—”
“Sure, Jack. Please don’t misunderstand; I’m not criticizing you. I think you’re to be commended.” She nudged him gently with her elbow. “You had me buying you more coffee—you got me to feed your habit right under my nose, that’s how long it took me to catch on. You made me your dealer, dammit!”
“Kinda,” he mumbled. “But I usually made two batches of desserts, so I’ve actually been feeding you decaf.”
“Huh. Well. That’s something to be proud of, you duplicitous jerk.”
He giggled, but immediately sobered. “I wasn’t trying to trick you.”
“You literally just explained how you tricked me. And how you tricked anyone who had one of ‘my’ desserts and thought they were getting caffeine.”
He shrugged. “I just needed it.”
“I know. But it’s just another stopgap measure. It’s not along-term fix. And other problems are cropping up, too, aren’t they? Because the more exhausted you are, the more the world seems bigger and louder. Things that didn’t bother you before are bugging the hell out of you now.”
