Page 54 of The Prodigal

“Hey,” I breathe, unable to see his eyes in the darkness. “It’s me.”

Something hits the floor.

“You were dreaming.”

It’s like he hadn’t been breathing until now as he sucks in a harsh breath, his body shuddering beneath me.

I know that feeling—the moment when you aren’t sure if you’re still trapped in the nightmare or if you’re awake and afraid to face the light.

So, I do what I’ve always wanted someone to do for me.

I lower my head to his chest and hold him until morning.

When I open my eyes the next morning, I’m alone in the closet, but a sheet covers me.

I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I just wanted Remington to know I was there—that I could wake him when he slipped into the abyss of a nightmare that held him captive.

But as his chest rose and fell rhythmically, his body warmed beneath me, and I drifted off to sleep. Remington was my angry lullaby that filled the small closet with something I’d never felt before.

Safety.

With his knees pressed into the back of mine and his arm draped over my waist, I felt protected.

But more than that, it was when my fingers intertwined with his that I feltcherished.

All my life, I lived knowing my parents never wanted me.

I wasn’t the apple of their eye—their little angel.

I was an inconvenience—a drain on their finances and the last bargaining chip they had.

Unlike me, my parents had hoped my biological father would meet their demands and come for me.

They thought he loved me.

They thought I was worth more than I was.

They were wrong.

My father never came, and I became expendable.

I don’t know what demons Remington fought in this closet last night, but I’m grateful he thought I was worthy enough to fight alongside him. I was glad he didn’t yell at me and shove me outside. Maybe we really can be friends—at least in the dark.

Sitting up, I kick off the sheet and stretch out the kinks in my neck. Sleeping in a cramped space with no way to straighten out my legs wasn’t the most comfortable I’ve ever been, but it wasn’t terrible—though Remington may disagree.

If he’s still here.

He may have woken up, realized our bodies were pressed together in an intimate position, and bolted.

I wouldn’t blame him.

Well, yes, I would. I have no way of getting back to Georgia.

But I would have understood once I was safely back at Midnight Gardens. Vulnerability in front of others can be more traumatic than the event that caused it. I wouldn’t blame him, though, if he needed to disappear for a while. I’d be disappointed, sure, but I understand the need to recalibrate.

All these thoughts, though, end up being unnecessary because when I open the doors, I find Remington’s phone vibrating on the dresser—right next to his keys. He didn’t leave, but he isn’t in the room, either.

I grab his phone and see he has twenty missed calls—all from different people, but the majority are from a Dr. Depressing. I’m not sure who that is, but whoever it is, they very much want to speak with him. Knowing Remington and his social skills, I would bet he knows that, too, and is purposely ignoring the calls.

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