The Lonely Hearts Club [On Hold]

Chapter Seven: Something (In the Way She Moves)

Chapter 7

Something (In the Way She Moves)

   When I woke the next morning, it wasn’t because I dreamt of sand blowing in my face or the echoes of artillery fire ringing in my ears. It wasn’t because I felt like I was drowning in pools of blood, only to come to the realization I’d been swimming in cold sweat instead. I didn’t wake up clutching at my chest, trying to figure out in my hazy state if maybe this time it wasn’t just a panic attack, maybe it was a heart attack that was making it feel like my chest was trying to close in on itself.

   I realized, with amazement and fading relief in equal measures, that this was the first time in a while I didn’t have a nightmare. Before, it had happened occasionally, which then became frequently, then daily. But not last night, for whatever reason. It was a calming notion just as much as it was a disconcerting one. While I did not find myself missing the nightmares in any way, I couldn’t help but fear the inevitable return of my nightly horrors, and wonder what had changed. Whatever it was, I wanted to sign up for a lifetime supply of it.

   When I woke up that morning, it was of my own accord; slow and lazy, like Saturday mornings should be. I basked in the fleeting feeling of contentment, one that I learned not to get accustomed to these past few years; expecting pleasant rarities only results in disappointment.

   I tried to will myself back to sleep, refusing to open my eyes until I was absolutely certain I couldn’t drift off again. Tentatively, my eyes squinted open, making quick work of adjusting to the sudden brightness of the room. The room that wasn’t my bedroom. For a moment I panicked—because from time to time, when people wake up somewhere they’re not supposed to, it’s in a bathtub of ice with a kidney missing—but relaxed once again after noticing the familiar setting of the living room. Only Jesse could have brought those dreadful curtains.

   My neck ached from the position I had fallen asleep in, and when I tried to stretch, a warm weight covering a large fraction of my body prevented me from doing so. I glanced down.

   Oh.

   It had been a while since I slept with someone—in the literal sense of the term, not the figurative. Well, actually . . . both, now that I think about it.

   I was incredibly relieved at my lack of a nightmare and, consequently, sweat. That would’ve been terribly embarrassing and she probably already thought I was a dork. (Not that I’m not, but she doesn’t have to know.)

   Grace lay with her head on my chest, curled up at my side. She was still dozed off, her breaths metronomical, blowing a wisp of hair away from her face every time she exhaled. Tiffany suddenly invaded my thoughts, and I forced myself to think of something else. Anything else. Christmas, breakfast, those horrendous curtains. Grace. Grace, Grace, Grace.

   I realized I had been staring. I looked away, knowing that if she caught me, she knew exactly what to put in my coffee to poison me. And if I was going by books she had taken out at the library, she also knew 101 ways to kill a man with her bare hands.

   Either by coincidence or misfortune, call it what you will, it was at that exact moment that Grace stirred in her sleep. Any minute now she would wake up, and because I didn’t want to look like I’d been up admiring her features for hours, I shut my eyes and pretended I was still dormant. I let a snore pass through my lips to ensure she’d buy the act. I’d never been an astounding actor, so it didn’t come as much of a shock when she didn’t.

   I felt her lift her head from my chest seconds later and sensed her bleary eyes on me. She smacked my chest in a manner that I imagined was supposed to be light, but the surprise and suddenness of it knocked the breath out of me. “I know you’re awake, Caleb.”