I frown. “So?”
He shrugs. “He went around selling subscriptions. Have to pay to read the bloody thing online anyway, might as well get something else out of it.”
The confusion clears. Such a Declan thing to do, a kind gesture almost lost in a sea of casually cruel ones. Under the weight of the invisible sandbag, my heart softens and gives, and I shut my burning eyes.
Papers rustle, and he hisses quietly as the cushions squish and jiggle. I open my eyes to see him with the book in his hands, paging through it. It’s Middlemarch. I’d thought we’d left it in Sarajevo.
“I can’t remember exactly where we were.” He glances at me, a question on his face.
“I thought I’d left that behind.” The book itself doesn’t look familiar. The copy I had was battered, notes crowding the margins. I stole it from the university book shop a few months after Ryan was killed, during one of the respites in the fighting around the old campus.
He holds it up so I can see the cover. “You did. We weren’t finished, though, and I figured you’d want to know how it ends.”
I already know. Dorothea marries Ladislaw. I shut my eyes and rest my head on the back of the couch. “Featherstone had just died.”
“No falling asleep on me.”
I keep my eyes shut. I’m awake, for all the good it’s doing me. “I won’t.”
The room’s silent except for the sound of the fire crackling. Month after month of stillness shattered by a gun, or a shout, and now all I hear is quiet.
“It caught us by surprise, you know?” I say softly. “We heard about the problems in Ukraine, the gossip spreading through Russia. If there were any hints of instability in Bosnia, though, it didn’t make it to the States. Ryan never would have allowed me to come with him if he thought there might be problems.”
“But he’d go himself?”
I open my eyes to see Declan slouched into the opposite corner, his broken leg propped on the coffee table, Middlemarch abandoned in his lap. “He could be damn stubborn when he wanted.” He’d been practically giddy when he’d found out he’d be allowed to go.
I pick at the wool pilling on the sleeves. “The first firefight was over by the old Olympic stadium. Quick and dirty, only lasted a few minutes. Two dead. It didn’t occur to me until after Ryan was dead that was the real start of the war. A debate over Communism and its place in government turned violent.”
It slams into me. Image after memory. Those times I’d been out sneaking around and missed the rebels gathered in the alleys. The building that had blown up a block over as I picked through the meager offerings at the food drop, causing the floor to rumble violently under my feet. Pretending not to see the foot sticking out of the rubble.
Ryan’s desk sliding into the flat below. The blood on Danilo’s face the night the club was bombed. My chest constricts and my vision greys, nerves on high alert as I wait for the next blast. The longer it takes, the tighter my chest gets, and no matter how hard I fight I can’t draw any air in.
“Shit. Nora? Nora. Breathe.” He pushes me around and shoves my head between my legs. “In and out. In and out. That’s it. Breathe.”
Breathe. Fear skitters under my skin. I reach up and grasp his hand, pulling it down, clasping it between both of mine. I’m safe. I’m in Galway. I got out. The grey recedes, my lungs relax, and I gasp in air.
Declan frees his hand and rubs my back, long, soft strokes that calm me further. I straighten and groan as my head spins. “Okay?” he asks.
I nod, sucking in another breath. “Yeah.” He resettles himself in his corner and when he lifts his arm, there’s a new hesitancy to the familiar move. But it’s that bridge I need between the war and now, something to ground me, and I scoot next to him, laying my head on his chest.
The heat of him seeps through the wool, warming me and thawing some of the numbness. “You sure you’ll be all right alone, Nora? I won’t be around much now that we’re home. The equipment I have here isn’t as sophisticated as what they’ve got at the agency. I’ve got some long hours in the editing suite ahead.”
I nod, rubbing my cheek along the worn cotton of his shirt. “I’m okay.”
We both know I’m not.
Chapter Twenty Three
He lied.
Declan’s been around more than he led me to believe he would be over the last few days. He’s trying to be unobtrusive about it, but he’s hanging around and the worry is starting to make him peevish. This morning he practically shoved me out of bed.
For the last three days, he’s made sure I’ve kept busy, drinking plenty of water and tea, eating, and we’ve finished Middlemarch and moved on to his choice, Catch-22.
I’ve thoroughly explored his house. It’s as austere as the living room. The appliances in the kitchen are out of date. The cabinets stick when you try to open them. His bedroom contains a bed, an armoire, two small tables, and a chest of drawers. The second room is smaller and littered with photos and cables and various pieces of equipment and baggage. A gorgeous picture of the Mountains of Mourne graces one wall, and the table holding his laptop and printer is buried under old newspapers and mail. Every wall is white, most have small cracks, and the only room in the house that looks like it’s been updated sometime in the last twenty years is the bathroom. He doesn’t say anything about the marathon showers I take. I can’t get enough of the seemingly endless hot water supply and steady pressure, pounding a drumbeat on my shoulders.
Today he wants me to go outside.
“Look, I need to go into the city. Meet with the editor, work. I can’t drive meself. I don’t want to have to call for a car anymore. You’ll have to do it for me.” He gestures needlessly at his cast.
“I don’t have my driver’s license. And everything’s on the wrong side.” Plus leaving the house isn’t high on my list of things to do. Nothing is, really, other than sitting on the couch cocooned in a blanket and taking my turn reading when he hands me the book.
The numbness and the weight lift at opposite times mostly, leaving me burdened with one and not the other. Hiding the inexplicable tears is downright impossible at times, though it’s kind of funny having Declan stare at me, terrified. I can almost seeing him wringing his hands.
Hence the pissed–off–ishness. Like now.
“Get up. Get dressed. You’ll figure it out,” he growls, and, lifting his crutches, swings out of the living room, muttering under his breath. I pull the blanket tighter around me and scrunch myself further into the corner of the couch. If I’m small enough to fade into the background, he’ll leave me alone.
“Get your bloody arse off the couch and get fucking dressed!”
Uncoiling slowly, I push to my feet and wait for the wave of dizziness to recede. It does so a lot quicker than it did the day before. I shuffle out of the room, blanket trailing behind me. I exchange my baggy sweats and Declan’s sweater for jeans and one of my sweaters, though I’d rather wear one of his. I like how it enfolds me. I manage to tie my shoes without falling over.
Declan swings out of the second room, his study or whatever it is, and scowls as his laptop bag swings forward. “Fucking crutches.” He adjusts the strap and leads the way out of the house, digging into his pocket for his keys as I shiver next to him on the front stoop. He passes them to me and I drag my feet all the way to the car. I’m having trouble breathing again. It happens on occasion, when the sandbag on my chest becomes an anvil, shuddering every so often like a hammer’s hitting it.
By the time we reach the car, my hands are shaking. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to take this step forward. He takes the keys from me, unlocks the door, and hobbles around the hood of the car to the passenger side. He glares at me across the roof. “Get in.”
I get in and automatically adjust the seat and the mirrors. I can’t do this. Too strange. Driving his car requires more concentration than I’m able to put forth. Key in the ignition, hands on the steering wheel, and I stare blindly out the windshield.
“Nora. Turn the car on.”
I turn the car on.
“Put it in reverse.”
I put it in reverse.
And on and on, grinding the gears and making him wince. He’s impatient, voice gruff with it, though he’s careful not to raise it. Twenty minutes later, I pull into a small parking lot in front of a run–down building. “Come on.”
I’m a puppy. A puppy who’s been kicked and punched yet still follows along, hoping for that one stroke of affection that makes it all worthwhile. My tail’s between my legs as I stumble after him, head down as he fumbles with the door.
It’s an office of some sort, most of it dark and empty. Desks, chairs, other work–related detritus clutter the rooms, but for the most part, no one’s in. We pass through one door, walk down a short hallway and into a small, windowless room full of computer equipment.
“Sit.”
I find a chair, remove the stack of photo paper from it, and sit. He sets his crutches aside and pulls out his laptop. After booting up, he hooks it into one of the larger monitors in front of him.
“What is this place?” I ask.
“Editing suite.” He shoots me a quick glance. “Everything gets cleaned up here. Photo printer’s in the corner, though most times they’re JPEGs sent to the editor.”
“Do you ever work with film?”
He grunts, hits a few keys. “On occasion. Mostly if I’m shooting for myself. There’s a dark room around the corner.” Thumbnail images pop up on the screen in front of us, and he scrolls quickly, pictures blurring into indistinguishable blobs. “Here.”
My face fills the screen. It’s one of the photos he showed me before, one of fear and determination. He substitutes it for another. This time I’m laughing. He clicks through a few more, every single one of them of me.
The last one he brings up is me staring out a window. It’s black and white, my face at the forefront. It’s not quite blurry, but not quite in focus, either. Like I’m only mostly there.
“Do you know what I saw when I looked at this picture?” He doesn’t wait for my answer, simply turns and catches my chin between his thumb and forefinger. “All of them, really. That’s a woman who lived a nightmare for two years and didn’t break down. I see them and I see you now, and I can’t figure out how they’re the same person.”
Tears sting my eyes. Stopping them is impossible. They come with great, gulping sobs, to the point where I almost hyperventilate. I hunch in my chair, face in my hands, the loud snuffles and aching grunts the only sounds. He doesn’t touch me, hold me, comfort me. The only time he comes anywhere near me anymore is in bed, his body curving around mine in a move so automatic I think it’s a habit for him rather than a choice. And the one time, the one time I want comfort, he stares at me in horror. Maybe disgust.
I get up and fumble my way out of the room, biting on my lip until it bleeds to keep the sobs inside. Sheer luck steers me toward the bathroom. I sink to the floor and let the rest of it come. Hands fisted. Hot saline on my cheeks. A brutal, brutal ache in my throat. Nose so clogged I can’t breathe. The tile magnifies everything and throws it back at me.
Minutes bleed together, and the hysterical crying fit slows, then stops. My entire face feels swollen. I blow my nose and splash cold water on my face, but it doesn’t help. I’m a mess. In more ways than one.
Declan wants a miracle. The woman in those pictures is gone, possibly never to be seen or heard from again. Whatever it was that kept me alive after Ryan’s death is gone or buried so deep I’ll never find it. Not without help.
Declan’s staring at the screen when I return, and rather than take my seat I stay near the door. “I don’t know who she is,” I say quietly, “but I don’t think I’m her anymore.”
He sighs. “Come here, lass.” He spins the chair around and pushes it against the desk, holding it in place. He props his foot up on a nearby crate and holds out a hand.
Here’s the comfort I wanted. Late, but I’ll take it. He surprises an “oomph” out of me when he tugs me down to his lap, chair sliding. I cling to his neck as he puts his good foot on the floor to stop the movement.
We sit for long, long minutes, his hands holding me to him, one on my thigh, the other at my hip, and I turn my face into his neck. His warmth and scent push away the anvil on my chest and the numbness in my brain, and I hate the moment of lucidity I get from his touch.
I’m not ready to move, not when I’m so tired. Not right now.
“I don’t want you to be the reason I get better,” I whisper. “I don’t want to need you. Or want you. I don’t want you to hang around to look after me. I don’t want you to resent me. I’m getting in your way.”
“Shut up,” he says wearily. He shifts me closer. “Just shut up for a minute.”
* * *
Things are…different, after the day in the editing suite. Not hugely different. Just that the two of us seem to realize touch and affection have previously unknown healing properties, and Declan isn’t as stingy. I’m not as gun–shy. Still no sex. My libido has been less than nil.
He rolls his shoulders and winces as he sits at the kitchen table, almost a week after my epic breakdown. The weight is mostly gone from my chest, but the numb feeling is relentless. The tears still threaten, though at least now Declan doesn’t ignore them or stare at me like I’m an alien.
“Problem?” I put a cup of tea in front of him, and turn back to get a spoon.
“Slept wrong.”
I set my own mug on the table and step behind him, the move ingrained from years of coaxing Ryan away from his desk when he’d slumped over it for too long. Declan’s low groan of appreciation as I dig my knuckles into his neck is oddly gratifying. “How’d you pull that one off?”
“Couldn’t sleep last night, didn’t want to wake you. No, no, don’t stop, it was good,” he protests.
I come around to face him anyway. “Why didn’t you say something?” If I’m going to put myself back together, he has to let me go at some point. Might as well start with sleep. “You don’t have to hold me every fucking night. I’m not a child.”
“It’s my choice.” The impatience in his voice cracks out like a whip. “Now will you go back to what you were doing?”
“We need to talk about this.”
“No.”
“Declan—”
He holds up a hand. “When I don’t, you start twitching. Whimpering. Makes it harder for me to get any sleep at all.”
I blow out a breath and glare at him. Of course he’d say something like that. It’s a little sick that I gain comfort from it. I step behind him and resume the massage. “Then I’ll sleep on the couch.”
He reaches up and captures one of my hands. “You’ll stay in the damn bed.” On a growl, he nips into a fingertip and releases my hand. The tiny sting crashes through my lethargy like a camera flash, there and gone. “I’m not going to kick you out of it.” He hisses as my thumb punches down on a knot at the curve of his neck. “Doctor wants to see how my leg’s doing. Think you can drive me in this afternoon?”
“Yes.” He sips his tea in between grunts, and I smooth my hands along his neck, threading them into his hair. “I think I should talk to someone. About…all this.” I need to. The numbness is troubling, the meltdown more so. And I won’t use Declan as a crutch.
“I’ve the name of a solicitor in my study. I’ll get it for you.”
I shake my head before I remember he can’t see me. “Not an attorney. I’m not ready for that. No, I mean like a shrink. Psychiatrist. Counselor.” I sit across from him and pick up my mug. “I’m not getting better. Not really. Sitting here, drinking tea, trying to pretend I do feel better…it’s exhausting. I’m tired. So fucking tired. And every day it’s an effort to stay out of bed.” His eyes widen in alarm. “Couldn’t you tell?”
“No. Yes. Fuck. I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m doing here. I don’t know what to do with you. You’re fragile. I can see that. One wrong move
and you’ll break.” He passes a hand over his face, and for the first time I see the lines of fatigue and worry, the shadows of it in his eyes.
It’s gone in the next heartbeat, and he pushes back from the table. “I’m going to take a shower. Appointment’s in two hours.” He hesitates, then comes around the table and stops next to my chair. He draws me out of the chair and tips up my chin. “That woman in the photos. Is she still in there?”
He searches my face for an answer I don’t have, and I shut my eyes so I can’t see the disappointment in his. They fly open again as his lips brush over my forehead, something he hasn’t done in weeks. I missed it, missed the sweetness of it, missed the Declan it represented.
My heart sputters once, twice, three times as he eases away and limps out of the room.
Chapter Twenty Four
We talk more now. We have actual conversations lasting longer than a few sentences. We usually have them in bed, strangely enough. The story comes out fragmented, how I ended up in Sarajevo, what happened after Ryan’s death. The shrink said talking about it would be good for me. I’m not convinced, but Declan’s a willing audience, so I’ve been trying.
“My brother stayed in touch.” I prop my head up on my hand. “That first year, we’d exchange emails. It was pretty sporadic, given how poor the internet connections could be. I spoke to him a few times, but that stopped after the cell towers were blown. I didn’t have a landline number for him to call.”
Declan covers my free hand with his own, lacing our fingers together. “They didn’t cut all communications out of the city.”
“No,” I admit. “After I snuck out of the embassy, I called my parents. That conversation did not go well. Our relationship was always very civil. We’re not close. It’s not filled with animosity and drama, but I always got the impression my parents had kids because that was what was expected. And they really didn’t like the idea of me going off with Ryan for a year.
“So I limited contact to Tim after that. When the cell towers went out for the first time, I stopped emailing, too. Stopped trying to get in touch with anyone, really. I don’t know anything about these terrorist watch lists. Tim could be on one, too, for collusion or some such crap. I’ve been out of touch with just about everyone for so long it wouldn’t surprise me if they believed I’d died there. Not to mention I stole pretty much everything I needed after Ryan died.” Including the flat I’d been living in when I found Declan.
Fracture Page 18
