Page 36 of Oathbreaker

He puts his hand on my shoulder, then down my arm. I unravel at his touch. And then, when his arm circles my torso, I weep when he grips me.

“I’m so damn sorry, Winter,” he says into my ear.

I put my hand on his and fall asleep.

NINE

WINTER

Transport from the hospital to the 767 is smooth, even though the tension in my stomach is anything but.

My OCD and anxiety have morphed over the past week. Before all this, I’d been relying on my rituals less and less, sometimes going through parts of the day without completing them. But since leaving Adam, I’ve been in a weird in-between state where my anxiety simmers beneath my skin but as if it’s behind a glass window. I see that it’s there, but I don’t feel it.

What a curious way to put it: Leaving Adam.

Everything feels bright and sharp. I don’t know what the solution is, but completing rituals feels like it calms the anxiety spiral a little bit. The dulling effects of the narcotics and fast-acting anti-anxiety meds the doctors prescribed also help.

I don’t know what to do with myself. I’m both in my body and very far away from it.

So I slip on the rituals like a worn coat.

North Carolina is a beautiful state, but I pray to never, ever return to it.

“Mrs.Brigham, we will take off in just a few moments. Can I get you refreshments before we do?” The blonde flight attendant wears a cool, professional mask, and her question is simple. So when I snap at her, I feel a little guilty.

“I am not Mrs.Brigham.” The sharp movement causes my injured eye socket to throb. I didn’t need surgery, thankfully, but the doctors said I needed to rest the muscles around my eye to prevent the non-displaced hairline fracture from becoming displaced.

Even though my jaw felt broken, I got away with only soft tissue damage.

The flight attendant raises an eyebrow at my words. “Oh?”

My head jerks back at her tone and the look of...relief? on her face. Hunter steps up to our seats after conferring with the pilots.

“Excuse me, Jami,” he says. His eyes fix on me when he moves around her.

“Do not call me Mrs. Brigham,” I repeat. This time, with a glance at Hunter, Jami looks flustered.

“I-I’m so sorry, ma’am, it said—on the manifest it—” She looks helplessly at Hunter, and a nugget of...something settles in my brain. I shove it away.

“Bring a whiskey for me and a sweet tea for Winter.” Hunter’s words are short, flat. I’ve never heard him speak to someone like that. Jami spins on her heel to hightail it back to the galley.

“Hunter, I get why you called me Mrs.Brigham while in the hospital, but I need you to stop telling people I’m your wife.”

He kisses the back of my hand. “Put your seat belt on, baby.” I stare at him, open-mouthed, for several heartbeats. Well, as open-mouthed as I can be with all the swelling.

Ba-dum. Hunter keeps referring to me as his wife.

Ba-dum. I love that so much.

Ba-dum. I hate that so much.

Ba-dum. Because I don’t know why he’s doing this.

It’s too much. “H, I’m serious. Stop having people call me that.”

He looks in my direction, searching my face. As if his muscles are reluctant to perform the action, he nods.

“I need the words, Hunter.”

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