sheets. She looked angry and anxious and a little bit lost, and the knowledge that it was his fault suffocated him. He turned away, closing his eyes, taking a breath.
He should give her space. That was usually what people wanted, right? For him to leave? And he was supposed to be giving her what she wanted, always. Plus, he was still furious, his hands itching to wrap themselves around Kevin’s throat, and there were only so many ways he could deal with those urges. He strode past her and shoved a few things into his duffel, then said, “I’m going to the gym. Okay?”
“Okay,” she said, still avoiding his gaze. Probably resisting the urge to murder him.
He hesitated by the door. “I’ve got my phone. If you need me, call me.”
She nodded. But somehow, he doubted she would.
As soon as Zach left, Rae picked up her phone and dialled Hannah’s number. It took three rings before that cool, familiar voice poured calm directly into her ear. “Hello?”
“Han. Hi. What are you up to?”
There was a pause. Rae knew she sounded unnerved and shaky, that her breaths were more like pants, but she prayed to every god she knew that her friend wouldn’t mention it. And, because Hannah Kabbah was a blessed angel—or maybe because she knew far more about emotional wobbles than her controlled exterior suggested—she didn’t.
“I’m actually in a blanket fort with Nate right now,” she said, as if that was perfectly ordinary.
Rae tugged the tail of her own braid. “Is that a euphemism? Because I can definitely call back.”
“It’s not a euphemism. We’re meditating.”
In the background, she heard Nate snort. “We’re counting sheep.”
“That’s meditation,” Hannah told him sternly. “Be quiet. Close your eyes. Rae, is everything okay?”
“Tell me why you’re counting sheep,” Rae demanded, like a particularly invasive loon.
“We’re winding down before bed. It helps Nate sleep. The blanket fort isn’t strictly necessary, but the kids are really good at making them. We always meditate before bed, or we drink something hot, or I fill in my planner and check off my goals while Nate reads a magazine.”
Hannah went on to describe, in detail, the issue of Photo District News Nate was reading this week. Then she segued into a soothing speech about Duke. He was apparently fast asleep at the bottom of Nate’s daughter’s bed, and had developed a marked fondness for one of the girl’s stuffed rabbits, which she had graciously gifted to him. Duke was apparently carrying it around as carefully as a new-born.
By the time Hannah was done, Rae’s balled fists had unclenched, her tense muscles had eased, and her heart didn’t shake inside her chest with every beat. Her breaths weren’t a step away from sobs anymore, and her skin didn’t prickle all over. She tapped her tongue against the scar on the inside of her cheek and felt herself knitting back together.
She whispered, so Nate wouldn’t hear, “Zach and I had an argument.”
Hannah hummed sympathetically. “Was it bad? Is he being an arse?”
“No. I mean, he was, but he apologised. I just… I really hate arguing.” It made her soul shrivel up and whimper, made her young and small and terrorised through force of habit. Even though she knew most people—especially Zach—didn’t argue solely to cause pain. Even though she knew most people wouldn’t rip her words and worries apart, then stitch them back together into Frankenstein’s Attack. Even though.
Quietly, Hannah said, “Did you tell him that?” As if she’d heard Rae’s thoughts instead of her woefully inadequate words.
“No. I couldn’t. And he thought I was pissed, so he disappeared.”
“What a twat.”
In the background, Nate said casually, “You wouldn’t happen to be talking about my brother, would you?”
“No,” Hannah said. “Rae, go and find him. He’s a big puppy. He’ll give you a hug and make everything fine again.”
Nate’s voice returned. “That definitely sounds like my brother.”
“Shut up and count your sheep. Rae, are you listening to me?”
“Yes.” Rae nodded firmly. “Yes. I think you’re right.”
“Of course I am.”
"I’ll let you get back to your, er, sheep, then.”
“Wonderful. Goodbye.”
But when the call ended, Rae sat rooted to the bed for at least another thirty minutes, sorting through her feelings like tangled skeins of thread. Like plot strands she couldn’t quite figure out how to untwist. She felt as though she’d written herself into a corner before she’d even met Zach, never dreaming that she would meet someone like Zach. Someone who hurt her by mistake instead of calculation, who apologised instead of