Fracture

by Amanda K. Byrne

  The soothing words and soft caress along my cheek are completely out of place. I blink awake to find Declan kneeling in front of me, the concern in his eyes softening his face. “All right?”

  No. Not all right. How can this man show so much caring and be so thoughtless and carelessly cruel? Essentially telling me I’m unwanted one moment and tending my nightmares the next? There’s no point in lying, though. “Go back to your seat,” I say quietly. I pull the blanket up over my shoulders, shutting my eyes again.

  He leaves me alone for the rest of the flight.

  As the plane begins its descent, I shift my attention to the ground below, the rolling green, the bay dotted with shipping vessels, the mountains in the distance. Sunlight glints off the water and spears my vision, and when it clears, we’re close enough I can see sheep.

  I’m in a land of sheep. Fluffy white sheep. Sheep on brilliant green pastures right next to the runway. A giddy smile spreads across my face, and I press my nose to the window, hoping to see more. I get smacked on the nose for my troubles as the plane bumps down.

  It’s not as windy as I’d expected, this close to the coast, though it’s chilly. I tug my coat closed and wait for the others to deplane. Declan hobbles down the steps and jerks his head toward a waiting car. The others peel off and make their way to a nearby hangar.

  The ride is strained and quiet. What little pleasure I’d derived from the sheep has dissipated, and Galway City’s charm is lost on me as the car speeds through the streets.

  Some of it returns when we pull up to a small grey house, well–kept but spare, on the outskirts of the city. There’s no fence to mark off where his property ends and his neighbor’s begins, and the grass could use cutting. The shadows of the mountains looming behind the house are lost to the darkening sky, and when I turn around to look down the street, the driver’s unloaded our bags from the trunk. The faint hum of traffic from a nearby road isn’t peppered with shouts and gunshots.

  The inside is as bland and blank as the outside. It’s obviously old, and again, clean and well–kept, but it’s boring to look at. Or, at least, the living room is. The windows facing the street are covered in dark brown curtains. The furniture looks comfortable, but there’s no rugs, no knickknacks, no color. A few photos hang on the walls, but no paintings, no posters. Just blank, white walls. If the rest of the house is like this, I’ll sleep outside, thank you. At least outside has personality.

  “You don’t spend a lot of time here, do you?”

  “I spend plenty of time here, lass. Why?”

  Insulting his lack of decorating skills probably isn’t a wise idea. I keep my mouth shut and set my bag on the floor.

  And now I don’t know what to say. We’re supposed to have a conversation that I don’t want to have because there are questions I don’t want to ask, things I don’t want him to know.

  He asked. I’ll have to answer. I just don’t know how to start.

  He solves the problem for me and cages me against the wall. “We’re alone now,” he growls.

  “How very observant of you,” I snap. “Move.”

  “Not until you tell me what the problem is.”

  I scowl at him. “Why didn’t you tell me about Ireland’s divorce law sooner?”

  A baffled expression clouds his face. “It wasn’t important. Marriage was the quickest way to get you out of Bosnia. Ireland’s laws wouldn’t have changed that.” He narrows his eyes. “You’re seriously pissed about that?”

  The fight drains out of me, and I slump down. “Yes. No.” He must hear the defeat in my voice because he lets me go, even helps me over to the couch. “Declan, you are one of the cruelest, most thoughtless people I’ve ever met.” I hesitate, rubbing my hands over my face. “You know I was engaged. You’ve seen how Ryan’s death affected me. So I think it’s pretty obvious that marriage means a great deal to me. Yet you treat it like it’s a plague to be avoided at all costs. And that’s fine. What’s not fine is how you treat me because of it. You don’t want to be married. You don’t want to be tied down. You don’t want some little woman worrying about you back home while you’re out putting your life in danger. But we’re married, and we’re stuck together until we can find a way out of it.”

  I suck in a breath, aware Declan’s yet to move a muscle since I started speaking. “You want me in your bed, but you don’t want me in your life. And it hurts every time you treat me like you care. Like I matter. You hold me and tell me it’s going to be all right when the fighting rages outside, or when I wake from yet another nightmare. I can’t reconcile the two Declans.” I can’t look at him. What I want from him and what’s best for me are two different things. He’ll choose what’s best for me. What’s best for me will split me in two. “Who am I to you?”

  Silence. I glance up. His face is hard as granite, eyes flat and cool. The silence stretches on so long there’s no reason for him to answer any longer. The odd fluttering in my chest calms as it’s replaced by ice. Maybe someday he’ll tell me what’s going on in his head. Maybe I won’t be around anymore to hear it.

  “Well.” I rub my hands over my jeans. “I’d like to take a shower. Where’s the bathroom?”

  The question startles him out of his stillness. “First door on the left. Towels are in the closet at the end of the hall.”

  I find the towels and the bathroom. Stripping while I wait for the water to heat, I take a second to snoop through his bathroom cupboard before getting under the spray. Sweet. He’s got a spare razor and shaving cream. I snag them and climb into the tub.

  Hot water. Glorious hot water, pounding on my shoulders, streaming down my body. The pressure feels amazing after so long with piddly little streams of lukewarm water. His soap smells faintly of pine and reminds me of icy forests. It sluices away the dirt of war, and after using the razor I almost feel…feminine. Girly. Give me a dress and a pair of heels and point me to a club.

  The yawn makes my eyes water. Sleep would be a better idea. The lack of it the night before and the gut–tightening tension of getting out of the country has fatigue rolling in. A nap provides the added bonus of avoiding further conversation with Declan.

  Clean and dry, I wrap the towel around me because I was stupid and forgot to bring a clean set of clothing into the bathroom. I wander out to the living room, ignoring Declan sprawled on the couch. My bag’s not there. “Did I leave my bag outside?”

  “It’s in the bedroom. Second door on the right.” Distant. He sounds distant, like he’s not in the living room but someplace I can’t reach. The split breaks open a little wider, and I pad down the short hall to the bedroom, gently shutting the door behind me.

  I can’t do this. I need today to be over. I need this whole mess to be over. I want to be home, with my family, with Ryan, where I’m wanted and none of this ever happened and I am not a shell of a human trying desperately to remain upright and sane.

  I want to sleep. Sleep until it doesn’t hurt anymore.

  That sounds like an excellent idea. Setting the bag on the floor, I drop the towel and slide between the sheets, the mattress like heaven and the worn cotton sheets warming quickly as I burrow under the covers.

  But it doesn’t come. Sleep, the bastard, doesn’t want to join me in this cozy bed, where he’d be welcome. Sleep wants to dance around the edges of my mind and taunt me as tears gather, surrounded by the scent of whatever Declan uses on his laundry. It smells like him. Icy clean. The pillow under my cheek grows damp as I cry, stuffing one corner of the sheet into my mouth to muffle the sobs. The last thing I want is for him to come in here and placate me.

  I’m safe. Finally safe for the first time in years. I won’t be woken by sirens or the screams of my neighbors. I won’t worry that the next time I step outside is the time a bullet rips through my head. Safe should equal relieved, and that’s the last thing I feel. Hurt sits on my chest like a sandbag, growing heavier as the minutes drag past.

  Tears can’t flow forever. They stop, and, exhausted
, I drop over the edge into oblivion.

  * * *

  I blink awake, the last wisps of the dream curling around me, Declan’s sly, charming grin imprinted on my brain. Fucking hell. I couldn’t get away from him even in my sleep. Getting Declan out of my mind and heart is going to be harder than I’d thought.

  I stare at the ceiling until the call of nature drives me from the bed. It's full dark and the other side of the bed is empty; I can only assume Declan's in the house somewhere and unconcerned with what I've done with myself. I pull on a t-shirt and underwear and creep out into the hallway.

  After my trip to the bathroom, I pad down the hall toward the living room, drawn by the dim light. He has his back to me, head bent over something on his lap. One of the floorboards creaks underfoot, and he lifts his head, glancing over his shoulder.

  His laptop’s open, the screen too far away for me to make out what’s on it. But it’s the look on his face that prevents me from moving closer. Closed off and out of reach, exactly like he was this afternoon. “I was just—” I wave a hand toward the kitchen. “Getting some water.”

  “Glasses are in the cupboard to the left of the sink.” He turns his attention back to his screen, and cold washes through me.

  It’s a strange sensation. It’s not born of fear or anger. As I fill my glass, a heavy feeling settles in my chest. Maybe if I go back to bed it’ll go away.

  Declan doesn’t look up as I walk out of the kitchen, and once in the bedroom, I set the glass on the bedside table without taking a sip. The blankets wrap around me like old friends, drawing me in, telling me to take a load off and stay awhile.

  Right now, there’s no place else I want to be. I curl up, adjust the pillow, and slide into the black.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Galway is quiet. There’s no gunfire, no random explosions, no sirens or screams or rumbling trucks carrying soldiers. Whenever I wake, the noise of my dreams echoes, remaining like afterimages burned onto a screen. It doesn’t bother me anymore. Strange. It scared the fuck out of me for two years.

  The days blur together in a mess of shadows and warmth and soft cotton, the occasional clunk of Declan’s cast on hardwood, strong arms like iron bands and familiar heat. Words flit through my ears, the difference between waking and sleeping a line so thin it doesn’t exist most of the time.

  Freezing air hits my bare legs, and I grope around for the blankets. When my hands continue hitting the mattress and no comforter, I crack open an eye. Declan’s next to the bed, propped up on a pair of crutches.

  “Where’d those come from?” I mumble.

  “Doctor says it’s not healing properly.” He moves his hand in a “come ahead” gesture. “Time to get out of bed, lass.”

  It takes far more effort than it should to sit up and locate the blankets, piled at the end of the bed. “Need more sleep.”

  He grips the covers and wins our brief tug of war, even balanced on crutches. “You’ve been asleep for the better part of four days. You need to get up, drink, and eat.”

  I pull my knees to my chest. “I’ve had water.”

  The mattress gives as he sits on the edge, and he slides a finger under my chin to tip it up. “Nora.”

  Why does he care? What harm is it doing anyone if I choose to stay in bed? I know I’ll have to get up eventually.

  I’m just not ready to.

  I’m twitching and shuddering with cold, though. If getting up means I’ll be warm again and he’ll leave me alone, I’ll do it. I scoot out of his reach and swing my legs over the edge.

  The problem is the moment I try to stand, my legs buckle and I crash to my knees, wincing as pain sings up my legs. Could I stay on the floor? It would take care of everything. I don’t have to move, but I’m not in the bed any longer. I’m still cold, though, and growing colder. Getting to my feet takes some maneuvering, and once I’m upright, I start swaying, the lack of food and water finally catching up with me. Spots dance in front of my eyes, and I screw my lids shut, throwing out a hand to catch myself before I can fall again.

  It lands on something warm and hard, covered in denim. Declan’s leg. He closes his hand around mine, and as I open my eyes, he’s frowning. “Can you walk?”

  “Doubtful.”

  He mutters something unintelligible and reaches for his crutches. “Looks like you’re getting your way. Go on. Back in bed. Do not lie down. I’ll bring you another glass.” The one I’d left on the table is empty.

  The bed. The wonderful, amazing bed. I climb on and pile the pillows up against the headboard, settling back with the blankets pulled to my chin.

  Declan limps in a few minutes later with a glass of water and a plate of what looks like toast. He sets the plate on the bedside table and hands me the glass. “Drink,” he growls as I stare at it.

  I take a sip, throat constricting, stomach twisting as the liquid hits it. I put it on the table. “I’ll drink it later.”

  “You’re likely already dehydrated. If you don’t start trying, you’ll end up in the hospital.” He nods at the glass. “Come on.”

  Hospitals are full of people. Hospitals are sterile, noisy places that end up bombed. I fumble with the glass and spill the water onto my hand and the table. The simplest tasks seem impossible. I also don’t care if I ever complete them. All I want is to go back to sleep.

  The glass is slippery in my grip, but I manage to keep from dropping it. Another sip, longer this time, has the same effect, stomach protesting violently. I eye the toast. He’s probably going to want me to eat that next.

  “Nora.” He wraps a hand around mine, steadying the glass. “Try for me.”

  I meet his eyes, struggling to focus through the numbness encasing my body. Where was this patience and caring before? An ache creeps in and winds around my heart, squeezing it. I could have used this Declan a couple times over the past weeks. Together, we guide the glass to my mouth, and I manage a few more sips before shaking my head. “It’s going to come back up if I don’t stop.”

  He pries it from my numb fingers and places it on the table on the other side of the bed. Ignoring his directive, I slip down the bed, head on the pillows, blankets matted around my shoulders. The warmth is a siren’s call, beckoning me to the land of sleep and peace, where the world goes on around me and I don’t have to think.

  “No falling asleep on me.” His quick grin doesn’t reach his eyes. “You’re worrying me.”

  “Why? I’m okay. Tired. I’ll be better after more sleep.”

  He snorts and shifts so he’s lying beside me. “I’m not a doctor or a head shrinker, but if someone sleeps away the better part of a week without waking for water or food, that’s more than needing sleep.” He curves a hand around the side of my face, thumb stroking my lower lip. “I’m a bastard. I figured you were getting up while I was at work. You weren’t, were you?”

  It’s different here. My nerves are still primed, ready for the next explosion, and when it doesn’t come, they start fraying. Sleeping it off is the quickest way to fix it.

  “I hate it here,” I whisper. “It’s quiet. I can’t think.” The lucid moments are few and far between, but what I remember about them is that damn sandbag sitting on my chest. No matter which way I turn, it won’t fall off.

  His thumb stills, his gaze intent on mine, the gleam in his eyes something I never would have expected from him — desperation. “You scared me. Second time you’ve done that. Your panic attack on the street,” he continues as my brows draw together in confusion. “That was the first time, and once is enough. This time? I can’t leave you, and I’ll have to. I’m due on assignment as soon as my cast’s off.”

  I bat his hand away. Leaving. I knew he’d be leaving me at some point. I didn’t need it thrown in my face quite so soon. “So go. I’ll get up. I’ll eat. Shower. Do normal stuff. You don’t have to worry. Just…let me sleep a while longer.”

  He doesn’t say anything for the longest time, his hand drifting to my shoulder, working its way un
der the blankets to my hand. Lacing his fingers through mine, he rests our joined hands on my hip. “I can’t do that. You’re getting up.”

  * * *

  Being awake is as awful as I’d imagined.

  I’m cold. The numbness hasn’t dissipated, even though he built up the fire and the rest of the house is pleasantly warm. I miss the bed, how it cradled my body, the sheets and blankets a fort that kept out reality. Half the water I drank came up, along with the toast. There’s another plate of it in front of me, and Declan expects me to eat it, despite my roiling stomach.

  I push it away and huddle deeper into my sweater. It’s one of his, the sleeves dangling far past my fingertips, the hem falling almost to my knees. The wool smells like him.

  “Do you even know what you’re doing?” I ask.

  “I know you need fluids and calories. Your other option is the hospital.” He nudges the water glass. “Drink.”

  He keeps me awake for hours, forcing me to swallow most of two full glasses. Surprisingly, they stay down, and the half a piece of toast I manage to eat stays with it. When I scoot my chair away from the table, he follows, grumbling as he scoops up the crutches.

  The couch cushion gives easily under my butt. Two years of squirming around to avoid the spots where the springs poked up — over. Over in a matter of hours and a plane ride. I pull the sleeves over my hands and curl into the corner. “Why crutches?”

  He leans them against the couch. “Had to check in with the clinic when I got back. Doctor didn’t think me leg was healing properly and told me to stay off it as much as possible.” He slaps the crutches with a glare. “Fuckin’ things.”

  I shrink back. “How long until you get it off for good?”

  “He’ll recheck in two weeks.”

  There’s a book sitting on the table, half–buried under mail and newspapers. “You still get the paper delivered?”

  “Neighbor’s kid needed a job.”