Page 54 of A Not So Merry Rescue
A slew of memories pummel me.
The last time Elias and I were intimate.
The text messages.
The phone calls.
The realization he was gone and never coming back.
The seal broken, I can’t control the tears. Ugly, snot-inducing tears cascade down my cheeks. A cry so hard, I can’t catch my breath. My lungs seize, my chest constricting and heaving with the sobs wracking my body. I don’t know how I’ll stop, how to let go of this crippling emotion trying to drag me under.
I push to sit up, trying to stop the intense feelings, to catch my breath, but nothing works.
Not telling myself to breathe.
Not demanding I stop crying.
Not pushing away the onslaught of memories.
Until someone calls my name.
“Willafred.”
It’s Elias’s voice, yet it sounds so real. So earthly. So in the room.
“Open your eyes.” So close, so demanding. “Willa, honey. Letme see those pretty blues.” A hand on my arm rattles me, and I gulp for fresh air, dragging it into my lungs.
My eyes fly open, but it’s not Elias staring back at me. It’s Beckett, his eyes wild, terrified, a storm brewing in the wild blue.
Without another word, he lifts me from the bath like I weigh nothing. Not caring about how wet I am, the mess we’re making on the way to his bedroom, he holds me close. The tears fall faster, but they’re silent now.
When he sits on the bed, he doesn’t let me go. He wraps me in the blanket, whispering, “It’s gonna be okay. Shh. Don’t cry. Try and relax,” and other calming words into my ears. With one hand, I search for purpose on his hoodie, holding on tighter, afraid to let go. With the other, I rub my earlobe, searching for any small sliver of comfort.
I can’t speak, can’t explain what’s happening, can’t pull away so he doesn’t get more soaked.
And I can’t stop crying. The tears won’t dry up.
My body’s fraught with sentimentthat has been holed up inside for the better part of two years. It’s all coming to a head. Here, of all places.
If I were thinking clearly, I’d blame Beckett for doing this to me. For unlocking the key to a chest I’ve kept locked since that fateful day.
But it’s not really his fault. It’s mine.
It’s mine for not confronting my issues two years ago.
It’s mine for shoving down every ounce of feeling.
It’s mine for running away from life, for shutting down, for blaming Elias for dying.
My body quakes, but Beckett squeezes me tighter.
I can’t contemplate what he must be thinking, the thoughts consuming his head at what’s going on. It’s too much to focus on regulating my breathing and stopping the tears.
I rest my head against his chest, not caring how wet he’s going to be when this passes.
Ifthis passes. At this rate, it feels like it won’t end.
I’m not sure how long we sit in his bed, me crying in his arms, him offering nothing but comfort and soothing. His hand trails up and down my back, tracing the same pattern.
