Maybe not today, or tomorrow, or even the week after that, but one day in the not too distant future, Ellie knew they were all going to be okay.
37
With a gasp, Ellie’s eyes flew open. Her heart hammered against her ribs while she peered into the darkness and gulped mouthfuls of air. Sweat plastered her t-shirt to her back, and her boxers clung to her thighs, so she kicked off the comforter, bunching the sheet in her hands as she waited for the panic to subside.
The specifics of the nightmare evaded her. She only remembered a flash of Kingsley’s leering face, and Sophie, begging for Ellie to end the game. The dread lingered, though, like a deep, internal chill that not even the warmest blanket could banish.
He’s dead. He can’t hurt anyone, not anymore.
She repeated the silent mantra until her pulse stopped whooshing in her ears and her body quit shaking. The alarm clock on the bedside table glowed with soft light. Almost six a.m.
Over a month now since she’d shot Kingsley dead. A month full of nights still frequented by nightmares. Would they ever end? Ellie was starting to wonder. Terrible as the dreams were, though, she’d take bad dreams any day of the week over the old memory gaps.
Online research suggested that the nightmares were her brain’s method of processing the restored memories, predicting that they’d fade in time.
Ellie hoped so, but if not? She’d survive.
Especially if the demons stayed securely trapped in her subconscious, where the only harm they could do was cost her a few hours of sleep here and there.
The mattress creaked, and an arm snaked around her waist, tugging until her back nestled up against a firm, masculine chest. Warmth and a familiar musky-clean scent enveloped her, chasing off the last remnants of the dream.
He pressed a soft kiss to her nape. “What was this one about?” The question rumbled against her skin, tickling.
“I don’t remember.” True enough. Besides, the specifics of the dream didn’t matter. It wasn’t real.
What was real was Clay’s solid warmth in her bed. The drawer in her dresser, where he stashed his spare clothes, and the green toothbrush that cohabitated in the silver holder next to hers.
What was real was the patience Clay had shown when he’d waited all those long, lonely months for her to be ready for a relationship.
What mattered was how the rugged lines of his face and his brown eyes softened whenever he looked at her and how he’d never given up on them. Not once.
Ellie trailed her fingers across his forearm, reveling in the light dusting of hair and the corded muscle, now relaxed beneath warm skin. His presence didn’t keep the nightmares at bay, but she recovered more quickly when she woke to his warm body nestled beside her.
Turned out, subconscious demons held less power over her when Clay was by her side. All she had to do was reach over and touch him, and the ghosts of her past began to dissipate like dandelion seeds in the wind.
She rolled over until she faced him and pressed her lips to his. Morning light was just beginning to chase off the dusky gray when their bodies joined in a familiar, pleasure-filled rhythm. By the time he cried out and collapsed on top of her, the nightmare was forgotten. Banished into the dark fringes of her subconscious, to reemerge again another day.
Minutes later, Ellie slipped from the bed, pulled on her discarded t-shirt and a pair of knit lounge pants, and padded barefoot toward the kitchen. On her way out, the pipes squealed as Clay prepared to jump in the shower. Into her shower.
Maybe she should feel weird, going from zero to sixty like this. In the space of a few days, she’d essentially gone from sprinting away at the slightest whiff of commitment, to most mornings, having a man lathering up with the French-milled soap her mom had gifted her under her oversized rain showerhead, drying off with her favorite soft green towels, and shaving his stubble in her bathroom sink.
If so, too bad, because she didn’t feel weird about Clay’s increased significance and presence in her life at all.
Ellie headed straight for the coffee maker. Within minutes, the delicious aroma teased her nose. Once she’d poured the steaming liquid ambrosia into a punny I Like Big Busts and I Cannot Lie mug decorated with a cartoon police car—a gift from Jillian, of course—she carried the cup to the dining room table and flopped into a chair.
All right. Now for the challenging part of the morning.
After swallowing a few sips of the hot brew for courage, Ellie steeled her shoulders and pulled up the video website. “You can do this.”
A deep breath later, she was typing “how to make perfect scrambled eggs” into the search bar.
Ah, the glamorous life.
Ellie snickered as a much too perky blonde woman prattled on about types of skillets and how to tell if an egg was fresh or not by dropping it into a bowl of water. According to Suzy Sunshine here, floaters were bad, sinkers good.
So basically, the chicken equivalent of the Salem witch trials. Strange, but whatever. Ellie shrugged as she skipped ahead to get to the actual egg-scrambling part, pausing when soft footsteps padded down the hall.
Ellie glanced up with a smile at the little girl. “Morning, sunshine.”
“Morning.” Bethany slid into the empty chair next to Ellie’s that she’d claimed as her own.
“Sleep okay?”
“Yeah.”
To double check, Ellie appraised the dark circles under the little girl’s eyes. Still there, but shrinking daily now that Bethany was sleeping through the night. The first two weeks in Ellie’s apartment, she’d woken up every hour screaming, but the nightmares had gradually diminished. Their family therapy appointment loomed ahead on Thursday, a necessary evil that Ellie only agreed to because the social worker insisted the sessions were mandatory.
Left to her own
