Page 22 of Bedtime Stories
His hair’s all rumpled, his t-shirt twisted around his shoulders. He looks unfairly good for someone who spent the night on the ground.
“Fine,” I say quickly.
“Mm.” He lets the sound hang, a quiet verdict. “You were restless.”
I swallow. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” His gaze sharpens, though his mouth quirks as though he’s fighting a smile. “Was it a bad dream?”
My whole body locks up. He knows. Heknows.
I shake my head, eyes glued to Quackers where he’s perched between us.
“Not… bad.”
Keane doesn’t push, and I breathe out a sigh of relief, but then, he pushes.
“Good dream, then?”
Heat floods my face. I bury half of it in my sleeping bag, wishing the earth would swallow me whole.
“Oren,” he says gently, his voice lower. “Talk to me. You know you can.”
The ants-in-my-pants feeling from before is back, stronger, buzzing in my veins.
“It was just a dream,” I mumble. “Doesn’t matter.”
He reaches out, just a light squeeze to my shoulder to ground me.
“If it had you wiggling like that, it matters to me.”
My breath stutters. I can’t meet his eyes.
My heart is doing this loud, traitorous thump-thump that feels loud enough to be heard in the next campsite over. Keane’s hand is still on my shoulder, constant, patient. So patient.
This must be what his witnesses feel like, I think wildly, when he’s cross-examining them. Boxed in, no air, nowhere to run, every word clawing up my throat whether I want it out or not.
“It was you,” I blurt, voice cracking. My face goes nuclear. “The dream. It was—you. And, and camping stuff. I don’t?—”
Keane’s eyebrows lift slightly, but his mouth stays neutral. Lawyer face. The kind that doesn’t give away a damn thing.
I squeeze my eyes shut and power through before I can chicken out.
“You were, um… showing me how to roast marshmallows. And then it—uh—wasn’t marshmallows anymore. And I woke up all—” I wave vaguely toward my lap, too mortified to finish. “So yeah. That’s why I was wiggling. Congratulations. You broke my brain.”
Silence. The longest silence in recorded history.
Then, softly, Keane says, “Oren.”
I crack one eye open, braced for teasing. For pity. For anything that will make me want to dig a hole under this tent and crawl into it forever.
The silence stretches just long enough for me to squirm before Keane tips his head, voice dipping low.
“You know what I think?”
I shake my head, afraid to breathe.
“I think that was brave.” His hand squeezes my shoulder, firm but gentle. “Telling me, even though it embarrassed you. That takes guts, kiddo.”
