Page 105 of When in December

I washed my glass and set it to dry. I tapped the one light off, and I maneuvered back down the hall in the dark like I knew this place like the back of my hand. As if I’d never been more comfortable in any home I’d ever been in before, even my childhood bedroom, where I whacked my shins on the side of my platform bed more often than not.

Aaron was splayed out in the middle of the bed. His arms were stretched to either side, like he was a star. But he wasn’t relaxed. His cheek twitched. Little sounds ripped through his chest, whimpering.

I took a step toward the bed, pausing before taking another.

“Aaron,” I whispered.

He didn’t seem to hear me. He was asleep, dreaming.

“Aaron, you’re having a nightmare.”

Nothing.

I reached out, gently touching his shoulder. “Aaron.”

His hand swung up, grabbing on to my wrist.

I was startled as he rapidly blinked his eyes open, staring right at me.

“You’re dreaming,” I told him.

Swallowing, gasping for air, he nodded. Reaching out, his arms looped around me, pulling me into bed with him.

“Sorry,” he whispered.

I shook my head against his chest, where he held me tightly, like I was some sort of comfort to him. A shield.

“It’s okay,” I whispered. “I’m sorry I woke you up. I … I didn’t want to leave you there.”

Aaron gave a low, tired hum and kissed my shoulder.

“Poppy,” he murmured.

“Yes?”

He froze in the middle of whatever he had been about to say. It was easier to talk with someone at night, in the dark. But sometimes, you still couldn’t get it all out.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said.

I opened my lips, unsure of what to say.

“I’m glad I’m here too,” I said before we fell asleep for another day.

Another morning closer to the holiday.

twenty-four

. . .

Aaron

I hatedthe way the paper crinkled under me as I sat, waiting for the doctor to come back in. But that quickly changed when I realized how much more I hated the way he sauntered into the room with a small too-happy smile on his face as he looked over my records. He hummed as he jotted down his notes.

I tapped my fingers against the side of the table. I’d made this appointment what felt like ages ago when I got back to town. Now, I was here to be told whether my life was over, and I didn’t get to go back to the one thing that I was good at and loved.

Or at least, that was what I’d thought the appointment was going to tell me when I made it. It felt … less important now for some reason. Less intense. Even if I was just as impatient.

“You look good from where I see you were a few months ago,” the doctor said, glancing back down at my file once more as if he was going to see something new there.

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