Page 46 of Brood
Then I jump—literally jump—when someone slides onto the bench beside me.
Will.
He never sits with me at dinner. His hair and beard are more rumpled than usual, and there’s some kind of dried smear on his sleeve that I can’t identify. His posture is slumped as he starts spooning stew into his mouth.
“Hey,” I say, turning toward him and fighting the instinct to wrap an arm around him. “What happened?”
“There’s was an accident in the greenhouse. One of the panels collapsed.”
“Oh no.” I glance back to Bella, who is listening with concern. “Was anyone hurt?”
“Two people. Jared and Connie. Connie is in the clinic, but Jared didn’t make it.”
“Oh no,” I say again. What else can I say? I’ve spoken with Connie a few times, but didn’t know Jared well at all. Still…
Will looks all torn up by the incident.
“How did it collapse?” I ask.
He shakes his head. Sucks in a ragged breath. Then focuses on eating his stew. He’s barely looking at me.
“You don’t know?”
“No.” He chews. Swallows. “But it’s got to be my fault, doesn’t it?”
“No! Of course it’s not.” I turn to Bella for help, but she only gives me a helpless shrug. “It’s not your fault, Will.” My voice cracks on his name.
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t turn away from his food. He’s eating it like it’s the most important thing in the world.
But he’s hurting. I can see the guilt and the strain beneath the surface of his unyielding stoicism.
I reach over to put a hand on his thigh. I don’t rub or caress him. Just rest it there. Public displays of affection are an absolute no go in the Refuge, but my gesture is under the table.
Will needs me, and no one else can see.
* * *
That evening, Will has to work late, dealing with the aftermath of the accident and supervising repairs to the greenhouse. A lot of our fruits and vegetables are grown in there. We need it fixed.
I’m already in bed when Will finally returns to our quarters. He’s silent as he toes off his shoes and strips off his dirty clothes. And he’s silent as he walks into the bathroom.
He’s in there for a long time.
When he finally comes out, he stands in the middle of the bedroom and looks at me. I’ve dimmed the lights to their lowest level, so a lot of his face is shadowed.
“We can skip tonight,” I tell him.
“I can?—”
“No.” Two months ago, I’m not sure I would have been confident enough to argue with him about shirking our duty for tonight, but I am now. “It’s been a hard day. Let’s skip tonight.”
He nods jerkily and climbs into his bed, reaching to turn off the light.
It’s pitch-dark in the room now. I hear him breathing. Hear the mattress shift as he adjusts.
My heart hammers so hard, I’m surprised it doesn’t make a sound he can hear.
Will doesn’t say a word, but he’s not sleeping. He’s not even close. I can feel the tension all the way across the room. Deeply anxious, I wait for him to relax, but he doesn’t.
