Page 83 of Dearly Unbeloved
I miss being a “both” with Rose more than I can put into words. “I have to fix this.”
“Yeah, you do,” Jazz confirms. “Come on, let’s get you home so you can make a plan to win my sister back.”
41
ROSE
The past thirty-six hours have been the longest of my life. Why do hospitals promise you’ll be discharged “soon,” then take an entire day to process shit? But Sierra is here, in our apartment—because it’s still ours, even if she doesn’t live here anymore—and everything feels a little easier.
It was almost 9 p.m. by the time we actually made it home. After the world’s longest hospital discharge, all I wanted was greasy fast food, so Sierra drove straight from the hospital to get burritos and Mexican fries, and now I’m so ready for bed.
At some point, before picking me up, Sierra moved the blow-up mattress from the living room, and there’s no sign of it. Which is just as well, because I really don’t want to explain that I haven’t been able to sleep in my bed or on the couch since she left, because they remind me of her.
“I put new sheets on your bed,” she says as she carries my bag toward my room. “I thought it might be nice after the hospital sheets.”
We haven’t talked about her leaving, or the fact that I still haven’t filed the divorce paperwork. I haven’t even called the lawyer to set up an appointment yet, and I suppose I can probably weasel out of it for a while longer, considering I’m just out of the hospital and it’s almost Christmas. That can be a next year problem. For now, I’m pretending it didn’t happen. It can’t be awkward if we don’t address it at all.
I get ready in the bathroom before heading to my room, where I can hear Sierra pottering around.
I pause in the doorway. Someone—Sierra, presumably—has brought the armchair from the living room through and set it up so it’s facing my bed directly. It’s giving cuck chair.
“What’s up with the chair?”
Sierra lifts the blankets on my bed and waits until I climb under them. I close my eyes, and a moan slips from my lips before I can stop it because the sheets feel so nice.
“The chair is so I can watch over you while you sleep.”
I crack an eye. “You’re going to sit in that all night and watch me sleep? Who are you—Santa?” She stares blankly at me until I elaborate. “He sees you when you’re sleeping.”
“I think our parents focused on different elements of Santa. But yes, I am. The doctor said I don’t have to wake you, but I need to keep an eye through the night. Do you want the light on or off?”
I look between the chair and Sierra, who’s waiting by my nightstand to turn the lamp off. “Sierra.”
“What?”
“Just get in the bed. You’re not sitting in a chair all night.”
Sierra hesitates, but nods. “Light?”
“Off, please.”
She clicks off the lamp and climbs in on the other side of the bed, keeping a foot between us. “Goodnight, Rose.”
“Goodnight.”
I close my eyes and try to quiet my mind, but I can’t settle. Exhaustion is weighing me down, but every time I’ve tried to sleep since the explosion, I’ve been tormented by nightmares: the moment of impact, the choking smoke, the bone-deep panic that I can’t get everyone out.
“You okay? You’re restless,” Sierra asks.
Even with my eyes closed, I can tell she’s watching me.
I explain the nightmares, the words slurred with sleepiness, and Sierra shifts closer to me. She slings an arm over my middle, resting her hand on top of mine.
“Sleep, honey. I’ve got you,” she murmurs, and her voice is the last thing I hear before I drift off.
I wake up eight hours later, without having a single nightmare.
It’s amazing what a night of good sleep will do. On the one hand, I feel much better physically. My head hurts less, my arm is more annoying than painful, and the room has stopped spinning every time I move.
