Page 52 of Storm Caller
She dips her chin. “Not quite like you, but yes.”
“What happened?” My words are barely a whisper, teased apart like finely spun gossamer.
I notice Sol’s eyes shine in the dimming light as she stares at me, and I know that whatever she says next will break me all over again.
“I’m sorry, Poet. I failed him just like I’ve failed so many others.”
With that, the weak glimmer of hope I was carrying like a sputtering flame is snuffed out. My shoulders curve inward as I begin shaking violently. It’s all been too much. Too many things have been happening. Too many truths.
Too much. Too much.
Tears stream down my cheeks as I curl into myself and start sobbing. It was silly to hope. Ridiculous to think there was a chance he might still be alive. Arms wrap around me, warm, safe. Rook tugs me close, and I bury my face in the crook of his shoulder, crying so hard that I can’t catch my breath.
“I think we need some time,” I hear him say. “She’s in shock.”
“Of course,” comes Sol’s voice. “We’ll give you both some space.”
The words are distant, muffled.
Fragments of speech filter through my grief. Sentences I can’t process.
“. . . to your room.”
“. . . talk in the morning.”
“. . . some food sent over.”
Then Rook is lifting me up, cradling me in his arms as I shake and shake. I’m so cold, so tired. I can’t stop trembling. My teeth chatter, and my hands ache. His warm lips press to my forehead before he starts walking, winding through the halls. My eyes squeeze shut. I don’t want to see anyone or anything. I hear more voices. A few hellos, concerned questions, but we keep moving. Then we stop, and I hear a door, and Rook lowers me onto a soft bed.
He gently tugs off my boots and pulls a blanket over me. I smell him in the sheets. His fresh scent. The unmistakable smell of home. Not the one I grew up in, but the home he built for me over the last year.
He sweeps back my hair and kisses my cheek. “I’m here,” he whispers. “I’ll take care of you.”
I believe him. Despite everything, I believe him. I always have.
A door opens again. More voices, the smell of food.
“Do you want to eat something?” Rook asks, and I shake my head. Then he’s crawling in beside me as someone appears above—a medic with a syringe.
“He’s offering something to help you sleep,” Rook says. “If you want.”
“Okay,” I say, my voice rough, dragged over sandpaper. Anything to toss me into oblivion. I need a break from this crushing reality.
A sharp prick, and my vision blurs.
Rook wraps his arms around me, and we lie together. Already, I feel the drugs taking hold, and I welcome the embrace of darkness.
Before I fall asleep, I mumble, “I think your sister is right, and maybe I feel the same way.”
And then I’m gone.
The next time I come to, I’m alone. A low lamp burns in the corner, and Rook’s bed is soft and comfortable. I nestle down into his thick blanket before the smell of food wafts over. My stomach rumbles, and I try to remember the last time I had a proper meal. The morning of Rook’s fight with his dad, but even then, I was too nervous to eat much. The sound of water running in the bathroom tells me Rook must be showering, so I reluctantly throw off the covers and push myself up.
My head spins, and my knees wobble. Probably an effect of the drugs they gave me. I’m grateful for it. I don’t think I could have slept otherwise. I still don’t feel amazing, but at least I don’t feel like I’ll fall down and die at any moment. It’s the little things sometimes.
I pad over in my socks to discover steaming plates of spaghetti with meat sauce and thick slices of garlic bread. It looks amazing. I sit down and start helping myself, and it might be the best thing I’ve ever tasted. I pour myself a glass of fruit wine, and I’m into my second helping of sauce and noodles when Rook emerges from the bathroom.
He’s wearing a towel slung low on his hips, his chest gleaming with water. My cheeks warm with a rush as I take him in. I’ve seen him like this before. We shared a room for months, but the sight of him still catches me off guard.
