Page 33 of Dead By Dusk

“If you want me to turn around, just say it. Use your words, Silene. You’ve never had a problem with them before.” Uncertainty is replaced by teasing, and his tone of voice is far raspier than it should be. I realize this was my goal when I said what I said. To ensure that the version of him I’m used to has come back to me.

“No.” His head bobs up and down for a second before lightly tapping the folded fabric with a loose fist. “Okay, well call out for me if you need anything then.” He’s heading out and before I can even stop myself—let alone think about it—I’m saying his name.

“Ronan-”

“Yes?” His hand is already on the doorknob, but he remains unmoving. So still it almost seems like he’s holding his breath waiting for my next words.

I guess I was doing the same too, though, as I release a long exhale before slowly speaking again. “Stay. Please.”

“Okay.”

That’s all he says before he’s closing the door and dropping his hand to the side. Slowly, with his back still facing me, he walks backwards. Each step is measured and deliberate until the heel of his foot hits the wall of the tub, and he lowers himself to the floor with his back resting against the cool porcelain.

I watch as small water droplets soak into the material of his shirt. Watch as he brings his elbows to rest on his knees and cradles his head in his hands and breathes deeply. Evenly. The silence stretches around us, molds itself into time while I drag my hands through the water.

“What do you remember?” It’s a shaky and whispered question, one I don’t know why I’m asking when I know the information has the ability to destroy me, and possibly even contradict what I’ve come to remember myself. I suppose it could be the cover of the house and the warmth enveloping me that’s allowing me to feel brave enough to ask. The tension that is slowly seeping from my pores and replacing itself with something akin to settling.

“I remember us.”

Strong. That’s really all I can say for the way he’s speaking right now. The conviction in his voice. Only three words, but possibly the most honest thing that he could have said. I’m notsure if it was what I was expecting him to say, but I would be a fool to believe only I remember who we are to each other. Even if not wholly, there is enough. I truly believe that’s why every look is one of confliction when our eyes meet. Longing and grief on his end. Want and hatred in my own.

“I remember the first time we met and how utterly intrigued I was by you at first glance. How beautifully violent you are. I remember our home. Cooking together—or really, watching you save the meals I tried to cook for you which turned into cooking lessons every Tuesday and Sunday night. I remember us in this house. I remember the first time we came here. I remember your favorite color and how it varies depending on the season. How you finally let me catch you.” He stops to take a deep breath, and I count the seconds.

“You have to breathe, Silene. Breathe for me. In four seconds, I’ll count with you. One… two… three… four… good. Hold it for a few seconds. Three… four… Now exhale.”

He’s doing it now, just as he’s taught me. Like the memories resurfacing are causing him physical pain. His head stays hanging low in his hands while his fingers grip his hair in frustration.

I let myself watch him. I allow myself the pleasure of observing his every movement while he can’t see me. I allow myself to welcome the onslaught of thoughts regarding him and all that we had once been. The storm outside is forgotten for a brief moment, my thoughts drowning out the noise before thunder tears through the peace, and then my body is tensing again and my eyes are squeezing shut. I vaguely hear the sound of his clothes rustling and then footsteps. It sounds as if he’s leaving at first, but then the tearing sound of fabric interrupts the silence, and soon, I hear him approach me once again.

“I remember just how much storms terrify you and why.” His voice startles me even though it’s no more than a whisper, andwhen I turn to look toward him, he’s on his knees before me. His outstretched hand holds a torn piece of the curtain he’d brought in earlier, and his eyes are closed. Closed to give me privacy, I realize as I hesitantly reach for the torn cloth in his hand.

“Blindfold me.”

The two words fumble from his mouth into the air, and my arm stills halfway between us. His breathing appears normal, but when I really listen, I can hear the tremble in it. I can see the slight shake of his hand as it extends its small offering to me.

“Please. So I can help you.”

I only try to talk myself out of it for a few seconds before I close the distance between our hands and a shaky exhale lands in the space between us. I’m not sure if it belonged to me or him, but I make sure to hold my breath when both my hands take hold of the fabric and let it move in between my fingertips until they’re both holding separate ends. I hold my breath as I cover his eyes and tightly tie the fabric behind his head, then adjust the front to make sure his eyes are fully concealed.

Regardless, he turns his head away from me for a second afterwards.

“What’re you doing?” I ask and watch as he adjusts the fabric on his own and turns back in my direction.

“Ensuring I can’t see anything.”

Something about the way he made sure before chancing a look at my bare skin sends a wave of appreciation and longing through my body, making me wish that we were anywhere but here, in a time and place where we’re different people than we are right now. His hand slowly reaches out again, and this time I don’t hesitate to meet him halfway. The second our hands connect, I watch as his fingers run the length of my palm before wrapping around my wrist, his thumb rubbing small circles over my pulse point.

“Turn your back toward me, but don’t move your hand. Please.” His command is the same as every other word he’s spoken since he walked in unannounced: soft, steady, and sad. I’m not sure why he doesn’t bother to mask the emotion. Not sure why I’ve done everything he’s asked of me, either. But I have, and I don’t stop as I use my other arm to push my body in a different direction against the floor of the tub.

His fingers are still wrapped loosely around my wrist, now resting lazily on my shoulder. I have to resist the urge to lean into his touch as he slowly slips his hand away from my wrist and creates a trail from my shoulder to my scalp with his fingertips.

“May I?” I just nod my head, knowing he can feel the movement, and my body relaxes as both of his hands gently brush through my hair and massage my scalp. I can’t help the sigh that escapes me, nor do I think I would’ve stopped it if I could have. All tension seems to fade away as my shoulders sag forward. My body slumps against the side of the tub, and my head tips back. He keeps going for a while, letting the moment stretch between us.

“What do you remember?”

I know I should’ve been expecting this given the fact that I just asked him the same thing, but I was hoping it wouldn’t come so soon. I don’t answer him immediately. Not because I don’t want to, but because I’m not entirely sure of what to say yet. All of my memories are so clear, yet the picture they paint isn’t one where all the pieces fit together.

His frustration at my lack of answer is palpable, and I can almost taste it in the air. I can feel it in the way his hands slow their movements and make their way to rest on the base of my neck and shoulders. I can hear it in the long sigh that escapes him.

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