Page 85 of Don't Go Faking My Heart
ASH
Rusty's asleep so fast, my melatonin hasn't had a chance to kick in yet (thank you, Mary Poppins bag).
I listen to his breathing change, and the peaceful sound makes me smile.
I don't think I'm imagining that he's flirting with me. I thought it would be easy to switch on some ultra-sexy version of myself, but that was stupid, because there is no ultra-sexy version of myself. I don't have a come hither gaze. It wouldn't work through these glasses, even if I did. I don't have a sultry voice. My voice is like a little girl hopping on stones across a pond. Jane calls it sing-songy, and that's 100% accurate. I don't do sexy.
And somehow, that feels okay.
Besides, Rusty is sexy enough for the both of us.
How have I never noticed until this week how stupid hot he is? It's hard to remember why I found Philip appealing, because he's so repulsive to me now.
And maybe that's it. A knockoff Prada bag looks pretty darn good. But once you compare it to the real thing, the faux suede feels rough as sandpaper, the stitching looks sloppy, and you realize Prada is spelled with "duh" at the end.
I'm done with shady bags you buy out of the back of a random van. I'm done with knockoff versions of a man.
I want the real thing or nothing at all.
And I think—I know—that real thing is Rusty.
I hear a sharp intake of breath, and I sit up, hoping that means Rusty is awake and we can talk. Or cuddle.
"Rusty?" I whisper.
He doesn't respond. I grab my glasses from the nightstand and put them on. The storm is still shaking the house, with dark clouds blocking the moonlight, so I use my phone light to peek at him.
His face is contorted in that same way it was the other night at the office. I get out of bed and pad across the soft carpet to the couch. And like last time, I press my thumb on the angry "V" between his brows, feeling the deep creases there. I run my hand through his thick, silky hair.
Unlike last time, though, he tenses in his sleep, and then he starts thrashing.
Is he having a nightmare?
I hate nightmares. I've had a million in my day—thanks a lot, ADHD—and they're always disturbing. The intensity of emotion is so much worse than whatever it would be if it were happening in real life. The idea of Rusty having nightmares makes my eyes grow hot, because while my nightmares are of specters and faceless monsters, I'm positive Rusty's all share the exact same face and form:
Arlo.
I can't let Arlo rob another moment of peace from this man. “Rusty,” I say. I run my hand through his hair and over his face more firmly. I give his shoulders a small shake. "Rusty, wake up."
His eyes fly open, and for a second, he wears a terrified gaze as he grabs for something in the air. Then he closes his eyes and tears pour out. Even if I weren't a sympathetic crier, this would make me weep.
"I'm here," I say, putting my forehead against his.
He grabs me and pulls me up onto the couch with him, hugging me tighter than he's ever hugged me before. In fact, it doesn't feel like he's hugging as much as clinging. He holds me like I'm the only thing keeping him afloat, like the dark tentacles of his nightmare are tugging on him and could pull him back down at any moment.
I won't let them.
"I'm here," I repeat. "And I'm not going anywhere."
I feel his rapidly pounding pulse against my chest and where my face is buried in his neck. His hands on my back ball tight around the shirt I'm wearing.
"Thank you," he says in a ragged whisper. "Thank you for being here."
And we stay like that, clinging to each other like our lives depend on it, until we both fall asleep.
When I awake, I'm on the couch and Rusty isn't. I roll over to see a live animal.
"Gah!" I throw myself back into the cushions and then exhale a relieved laugh. It's Pookie. Her ugly-cute face is mostly ugly first thing in the morning.
