thinking. “It changes. It’s usually someone random. Someone from my life who just pops up in the dream.” I sigh. “It used to always be my dad.”
“I thought you never knew your dad.”
“I didn’t. I actually have no idea what he even looks like. But he used to be there in my dream. I’d know it was him. Now it could be anyone. I just chase and chase and chase and never catch the person.”
“It sounds terrible.”
“It could be worse, I guess. It’s just...” I can’t think of an appropriate word, so I let the thought trail off unfinished. Then I dart him a quick look. “Was I saying anyone’s name?”
“No. You were just calling out no and stop. I was... worried.”
Relieved that his presence in my dream has remained a secret, I ask him, “Why were you going to the kitchen at two o’clock in the morning?”
“I couldn’t sleep, so I was going to make some hot chocolate.”
“Why hot chocolate?”
He lifts his shoulder and quirks his mouth. “Why not?” After a moment, he adds, “My mom used to always make it for me when I had a bad dream or couldn’t sleep, so it’s still what I do. Come on. I’ll make you some too.”
I hesitate only a few seconds before I nod and climb out of bed. I have an awkward moment as I quickly rearrange my gown, which has gotten disarrayed and isn’t appropriately covering my body. Then I grab the little silk robe that matches it and pull it on as I follow Damian to the kitchen.
I sit on a stool at the counter as he gets out milk and cocoa and turns on the cooktop. “Were both your parents around growing up?” I ask, feeling an uncharacteristic need to fill the silence after a few minutes.
“Yes. They’re still alive and still married. They moved to a retirement community near Savannah a few years ago.”
“Were you close to them?”
“Yeah. I think so. They’re good parents.” He’s been stirring his pot constantly, but it’s evidently reached the appropriate level of hotness because he turns off the stove and pours the hot chocolate into two mugs. He sits next to me and takes a sip of his. “The hot chocolate always reminds me of my mom.”
“Yeah.” I make a pleased sound as I swallow the warm, sweet drink. “This is good.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I just always used the powdered stuff with hot water.”
“Ah. Then you’ve definitely been deprived.” He’s not smiling except for his eyes, which slant over to me with a definite gleam.
I make a face at him just to prove that I’m aware of his silent teasing.
“What did your mom make for you when you had nightmares as a kid?” His tone has shifted now.
“Nothing really.” Before he can respond, I go on, “Not that she ignored them. She just didn’t fix me anything to eat or drink. She’d get in bed with me and read me a story. Actually, she was a sleeptalker too. She’d have bad dreams sometimes and wake me up.”
“What would you do?”
“I’d get in bed with her and read her a story.” I laugh softly at the memory. “She seemed to like it.”
“I bet she did.”
There’s something in his voice, so I scan his face to try to understand it. It’s almost... disapproval. “What are you thinking?”
“Nothing.” His first response seems automatic, but then he must rethink because he adds, “When did you start taking care of your mom?”
My mouth drops open as I process the question. “I didn’t... I mean, she took good care of me.”
“I know she did. I’m not saying she didn’t. But it also seems pretty clear that you feel responsible for taking care of her. And it must have started young.”
“I guess so. But what does it matter? We were all each other had.”
“I know. I get it. I really do.” He’s talking gently, like he’s afraid he might spook me with a sudden sound. “But it must be a lifelong habit if you’re still trying to do it now.”
“I’m not—” I stop short.
We both know Damian is right. Of course I’m still trying to take care of my mother. I’ve hatched this crazy plan to ensure she can be happy and undisturbed in her new relationship.
I sink my head into my hands for just a few seconds. “Now you sound like Steve.”
“I do? Why?”
“Because he’s always telling me that this fake marriage thing is an extreme overreaction to the situation.”