The usual Brody-worshipping thing I’ve done when sharing a bed with him is happening again.
I’m not delusional; I know we can’t go on like this forever. I need sleep, and Brody won’t let me wear myself out, but unless we’re going to be one of those couples who don’t sleep in the same room, I need to work on more than the sex stuff with my therapists.
Finally, I’m at a point where I know I not only want to work on myself but need to. Otherwise I will never have the chance to have what Law has with Reed. I’ll be the weird, single uncle to their kids who lives in the spare room and who sometimes breaks down at night.
I don’t want to be that guy.
I want to be happy. With Brody, with someone else, I’m not sure yet.
What if I can’t survive a relationship again? What if I go back to my old ways? What if this hits the one-month mark, and I give up and bail like I always do?
The need to believe that won’t happen is strong because I’ve already done so much more with Brody than I have with anyone since Kyle. I’ve told him about my past and my issues, and we’ve worked through some of those anxieties already. I haven’t scared him off with any of my panic attacks. That has to mean something.
The sound of the front door to the apartment opening echoes through the quiet night and interrupts my thoughts.
I blink away the haze and make sure Brody is still next to me, which he is.
My body goes rigid. I can’t breathe, and I freeze up completely.
I could be hearing things. It could be next door.
Trying to think logically goes out the window when footsteps sound, followed by a bang and someone whispering, “Motherfucker.”
It’s impossible to tell if the voice is male or female, but I won’t be the same guy I was five years ago. I won’t freeze under pressure.
I will, however, be a big-ass chicken and wake the slightly bigger guy sleeping next to me. “Brody,” I hiss, trying to be quiet.
He doesn’t respond.
I say his name again and try to shake him awake. “Please wake up. Please wake up. Please wake up.”
Great, now I’m chanting.
My heart pounds, and I can’t stop it.
The grip I have on Brody’s arm tightens. The footsteps in the living room get louder. The apartment is carpeted, so it’s not a loud noise like it would be on a hardwood floor. It’s more like the vibrations of heavy feet.
Now I’m imagining a T-rex like from Jurassic Park with water ripples in drinking cups. Although, a T-rex would be less scary than whoever could be out there right now. Because as illogical as it is, it’s easy to feed into the fear that Kyle could’ve found me besides the fact he doesn’t know where I live and is still locked up.
“Brody,” I say louder, risking whoever’s out there overhearing, but he needs to wake the fuck up right now. “Someone’s in the apartment.”
That works. Whether it’s my hard tone or that he finally hears me, he’s out of bed before his eyes even open properly.
“Stay here.”
“Duh.”
I sit up and watch Brody move shakily through the dark and close the bedroom door quietly behind him.
My hands shake.
Oh God, what if there’s someone out there with a knife or a—
The crack under the door lights up.
“Fucking hell, Rachel. What is wrong with you?” Brody yells.
Rachel. His … sister?
The relief of it not being an intruder is short-lived because now I’m freaking out for a completely different reason.
I’m in Brody’s bed. He went out there in only his boxers. It’ll be obvious we were in here together.
Brody and Rachel’s murmurings fade as I calm myself from panicking about someone finding out about us.
Then something else clicks in my small brain. Meatball’s owner is back.
She’s gonna take my damn cat.
As if on cue, I hear, “Aww, there’s my baby girl! Whoa, you got fat.”
Meatball is not fat. Rachel’s fat.
Okay, so I haven’t seen her, but she called my baby fat, so she deserves it.
I don’t know when I became so possessive over the damn rodent, but there it is.
I want to go out there and snatch Meatball out of her arms, but you know, that involves meeting the brave woman who saves cats and builds homes for the poor in a country with the highest crime rate in South America.
“I think she’s forgotten me,” Rachel says, her voice closer to the bedroom door. “Come here, baby? Come on.”
Meatball lets out a little meow of protest.
“Uh, yeah, we kind of bonded,” Brody says. “I’ll put her in my room, and then we’ll—I mean, I’ll get the couch set up for you. Not we. There’s no we. The cat can’t help.” Brody’s awkward rambling almost makes me laugh.