God. He really is a . . .
My thoughts cut out as I watch CJ stumble after the foot of his crutch gets stuck on the throw rug. He puts weight on his injured leg.
I gasp.
“Fuck!” CJ roars, tossing the crutch, sending it sailing across the room toward the kitchen and then bending over to hold onto the armrest. He grits his teeth and hisses through them, dropping his blood-red face.
I leave the box on the floor and rush over. “It’s okay. I got it. Really,” I say, ducking under his arm and draping it over my shoulder. I help him straighten up, holding onto his wrist and wrapping my other hand around his waist. “Come on. Let’s get you back on the couch.”
He hesitates, but eventually lets me support him and hops a step.
“I could’ve managed myself. I just needed a minute,” he grumbles.
“But I’m here. It’s better if I help you.” Stopping at the middle cushion, I lift my head and look up at CJ. He’s smiling down at me.
I could say something snarky, or tease how he’ll probably be stumbling more often to get this close to me again, but I don’t.
“Thank you for wanting to help me though,” I tell him, watching his grin soften. “That’s really nice of you.”
“Nothing nice about it. It’s the right thing to do,” he argues, stating that matter-of-factly.
I blink up at him, thinking about the day I moved into Richard’s house and how he told me helping him carry things in would help move this shit along, and how when he saw me struggling with a box as heavy as the one I just carried inside, he laughed and said I needed to lift with my knees. That was the only help he offered that day.
My eyes fall to a spot on CJ’s shirt.
“You all right?” he asks me.
No. Not at all, I think, but I don’t tell him that.
I force a smile and give it to him. “Yep,” I lie. “Come on. Back on the couch you go.”
I get CJ re-situated on his back, boosting his ankle up with a pillow and handing him the remote, then I empty out the box a couple of items at a time and carry them to the master bedroom.
The bedroom I’ll be sleeping in.
Later that night after a quick dinner of sandwiches and chips—CJ had lunchmeat that needed to be eaten and not much else in his refrigerator or cabinets, leaving us with little choice that didn’t include takeout—I slip on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt, handle my bathroom routine, secure my hair up into messy bun, and climb into bed.
I draw the sheets around me as cold air blows out of the vent on the wall directly above my head.
CJ’s smell is everywhere. On the pillow and the satin touching my skin. His summer meadow soap and that clean, masculine scent I took home with me after the weekend of the wedding.
I close my eyes.
More cold air blows out of the vent. My teeth chatter and a chill runs through me. I kick the covers off, swing my legs out of bed, and walk over to the suitcases I have yet to unpack.
I rifle through the one, looking for something with sleeves. When I flip open the lid of the second suitcase and stare at my collection of crop tops and frayed jean shorts, I give up and move to the dresser along the wall.
The bottom drawer holds what I’m looking for, and I slip on the light grey Ruxton Police Department hoodie with the word Tully in white screen-print on the back.
It’s soft and well-worn and the sleeves are stretched out and fraying.
I never want to take it off.
I draw the hood over my head and climb back into bed. I close my eyes.
And I don’t know if it’s because I’m in CJ’s house or in the bedroom I know is his, or if it’s because he’s all around me, in the sheets I’m tucking underneath my chin or the loved cotton against my cheek, but my mind goes back to that night at The Red Door. I can hear CJ calling out and I can feel Richard’s harsh grip on my arms as he drags me down the sidewalk. And then I’m being thrown to the ground and he’s there, CJ is right there, reaching out to me to make this better and to get me safe, and then he’s gone, and there’s shards of glass hitting me and people are screaming out.
I see him. He’s lying there with his eyes closed and blood and broken glass beneath him. And Richard is getting pulled away by police and he’s screaming at me, he’s calling me a bitch and telling me to help him, but I need to help CJ. I need to, because this is all my fault.
It’s my fault.
A sob catches in my throat as I press my cotton covered hand against my mouth. Again, I’m kicking the comforter off and swinging my legs out of bed, but instead of looking for more layers to keep warm with, I leave the bedroom I’m living in now and pad down the hallway to the other. I stand in the doorway.
CJ is lying on his side facing away from me. The moonlight is shining through the window. I can see him. He’s shirtless and the sheet is gathered at his waist, and I don’t make a sound but he hears me and turns his head, peering at me over his shoulder.
I don’t know if I woke him or if he’s having the same nightmares as me. I don’t ask either.
He motions with his head for me to enter the room. I round the bed and crawl under the cool sheet, sliding closer until I can bury my face in his chest and get his arms around me.
“I’m so, so sorry,” I cry, feeling my tears slide down my cheek and press into the skin above his heart.
CJ’s arms tighten around me. He ducks his head close to mine and soothes me with his hand moving up and down my back. He doesn’t say a word.