Page 155 of Sweet Nightmare

I shake my head to ward off the newest wave of sadness rolling through me and catch Jude wandering up the ornate, art deco stairs to the balcony. He sits in one of the gold velvet chairs, eyes pensive and far away, so I decide to join him.

I don’t know what I’m going to say to him, and I definitely don’t have a clue what he might say to me. I do know that we haven’t had a chance to talk, really talk, since he fished me out of the ocean this morning. And I really want to hear what he has to say.

He seemed pretty clear in those moments—I’m not okay living in a world without you in it is simply a certain level of…something. But this is Jude, and this wouldn’t be the first time he’s given me pretty words only to yank them back when I need them most. Before I start letting myself think about him…us, I need to make sure this isn’t all in my head.

Even knowing what I want—what I need—the climb up those stairs is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. My hands are trembling by the time I make it to the top, and my knees are so wobbly that I’m surprised they manage to hold me up—even before Mozart switches to playing Coldplay’s “The Scientist” and my already shaky stomach falls to my toes.

My feet forget how to walk.

My lungs forget how to breathe.

And my heart—my poor, battered heart—forgets how not to break.

The phantoms of our broken past litter the space between us, and now that I’m here—now that we’re here—I can’t force myself to cross the divide. Not again. Not one more time.

Not when I’ve been hurt so many, many times before.

Jude’s gaze collides with mine from across the room, and a sob wells in my throat. Though I try my best to hold it back—to swallow it down—it escapes.

His eyes widen at the sound, and humiliation burns through me. All these years I’ve worked so hard to hide my pain—to focus on the fury—that its escape now feels like one more betrayal in a wild, raging ocean of them. Only this time, there’s no one to blame but myself.

I turn to flee back downstairs, where the only monsters I have to fight are the ones with teeth and claws. But I only make it to the second step before Jude is there, pulling me into his arms. Holding me against his heart. Whispering fast and frantic words against my ear.

“I’m sorry,” he tells me over and over again. “I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I only ever wanted to keep you safe.”

“It’s not your job to keep me safe.” All the years of pent-up fear and confusion explode in an instant. “It’s your job to be my safe place—they’re not the same thing.”

“I know,” he whispers, pulling back just enough to look in my eyes. Just enough to run his finger over the tiny dent in my chin in that sweet and serious way he has that breaks my heart every fucking time. “I’ve finally figured that out.”

“Then why—” My voice breaks like my resolve, and I sink into him before I can stop myself.

Despite everything, he feels good and safe and right. So right. I breathe deep, wrap myself in the scent of warm honey and confidence. Then burrow closer as I wait for what feels like an eternity for him to speak.

When he does—when he pulls away and strokes a hand down my cheeks—he says the absolute last thing in the world I would ever expect him to say.

“I hate brussels sprouts.”

At first, I’m convinced I’ve heard him wrong. Convinced that too many chrickler bites and monster fights have done some serious damage. “I’m sorry?” I shake my head. “What did you say?”

The corners of his mouth turn up in that tiny smile that is only a smile if you’re Jude, and though I’m confused as fuck, my heart starts beating overtime anyway.

He holds up a finger. “I hate brussels sprouts.”

What the—

He holds up a second finger, and his eyes never leave mine. “I love you.”

Everything inside me freezes at his words—and at the realization of what it is he’s doing.

He’s finishing what we started last night before our world turned upside down. His very own Jude Abernathy-Lee version of Two Truths and a Lie.

I’m afraid to move, afraid to breathe, afraid to hope, as I wait for whatever comes next.

He holds up a third and final finger. And this time I have to strain to hear as he whispers, “I got sent here when I was seven because I killed my father.”

CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

A SHOULDER