Night Falls

Nine

I didn't sleep the rest of the night; once I had calmed down, Scott had brought me a cup of tea and dragged a kitchen chair up the steps and leaned it against the wall, his feet kicked up and resting on the empty side of the bed.

I had asked him to leave, not wanting to ruin his chance at sleep, but he refused.

"It's my job to protect you," he stated as he lifted his feet up on the bed and settled himself into his chair. "From anything."

His eyes finally fluttered shut around 3am, and I knew he would be exhausted in the morning.

I just laid there, curled up on my side and staring at the wall. I was terrified of what I would see if I dared to close my eyes.

Every so often, a few unexpected tears would escape, and by the time the first of day's rays glowed through the doily curtains, the tears finally dried, and I wondered if I had finally run out.

I had never cried so much in my life, sharply reminding me just how cushy my life had been.

I flip over onto my other side, my knees tucking into my stomach as I stare at Scott; his head lolled to the side and his mouth parted. His arms were crossed over his chest—a position I determined to be his signature pose.

I think back to the conversation we had on our trip up, how it had just been Scott and his sister growing up. He clearly didn't have the white picket fence and apple pie life I had grown up in, and I had to wonder if that held any motive to the man that he had become.

Nothing about the sleeping man in front of me screamed "FBI" except the badge that noted him as a government agent.

My gut churns as a nagging feeling creeps up my spine that there is a direct connection between his family and his career choice.

Birds begin to chirp outside the window, and even though my body aches with exhaustion, I squirm at the thought of staying in this bed for a moment longer.

Carefully, I draw the covers away from my body, swinging my feet over the side of the bed and lowering them onto the cool wood. I push myself off the mattress, and with careful steps, escape through the partially opened door.

In the hallway, I peek over my shoulder, relaxing when I see Scott hadn't moved at all.

My descent into the kitchen isn't as graceful, and I cringe with each groan of the steps but are happy when my feet finally sweep across the beige tiles of the kitchen.

I begin rummaging through the cupboards, knowing somewhere there was tea, and hopefully some coffee to brew in the ten-dollar pot from Wal-Mart that I had had in my first apartment. It takes some searching, but I find a box of generic Lipton tea in the cabinet closest to the door that leads to the backyard, and next to it, a container of coffee grinds with only enough scoops left to make a few cups.

I get to work making the drinks, happy to find coffee filters next to the pot, saving me from having to go old-school and use a paper towel instead. There's no teapot, much to my disappointment, and with a defeated sigh, I throw the cup into the microwave, making a mental note to pick up a tea kettle when I go for groceries.

The microwave dings after a minute and I wrap my hands around the warm ceramic as I lower myself into the kitchen chair that looks like it was stolen from a 1950's diner, with the table to match.

Outside the window, I watch the trees sway in the frosty, March wind, the rising sun a deceiving warmth as the cold seeps through the tiles beneath my feet and climbs up my legs, causing a shiver to run down my spine as I draw the steaming cup to my chest in a desperate hug.