He laughs, his head dipping, causing strands of his hair to brush against my chest. “So we should probably get all the naughty stuff out of the way now, right?”

“How naughty are you thinking?”

“How thin are these walls?”

30

—Joshua—

I jerk awake with Becca’s arms thrashing wildly, hitting me from all angles. I try to grasp her hands but it’s too dark, and before I can switch on a light, before I can think, it all stops. I wait for her next move, not wanting to spook her in case it sets something off. She sits up quickly, her feet landing on the floor with a thud, and reaches for her phone. I try to settle the pounding in my chest while I rub my eyes, adjusting to the dark.

Her door rattles, catching my attention, but it doesn’t open.

“Unlock the door, sweetheart,” Martin says. His voice seems calm—too calm. But Becca doesn’t move.

I get up quickly, unlock and open the door for him, not knowing what else to do.

He doesn’t acknowledge me, just goes straight to her and squats down to her level, taking her hands in his. I assume she alerted him, that’s why she reached for her phone, and I wonder how often this happens. Because it seems too routine.

My heart breaks at the sight of her, and at the silence that surrounds us. “It was a bad one, huh?” Martin says.

Becca nods, her shoulders shaking with her sob and why the fuck am I just standing here?

“You need to breathe, Becca. Deep breaths,” he soothes.

It should be me. Why didn’t she turn to me?

Martin eyes me quickly before refocusing on Becca. “Remember what Dawn said—that the nightmares appear when you find yourself truly happy. Think of what’s making you happy, Becca.”

Becca nods again while wiping her eyes across her forearm. Martin catches my stare and motions for me to join him. It takes a moment for me to come to, for the shock and semi-disappointment to dissipate.

I put one foot in front of the other and hope that my presence isn’t the cause of her misery.

“Josh is here,” Martin says, patting her hands. “Do you remember that?”

Becca blinks.

Once.

Twice.

Then she looks up at me. Moments pass. Moments of heartache. Eventually, she smiles, and I feel the air in my lungs for the first time since she woke. She takes my hand and places my palm on her cheek, letting it soak in her tears. She looks so young, so dejected. I wait for her to say something. Anything. Because in the haze of everything that’s happening, I forgot for a second—just one—that she can’t say anything. But she moves… back into bed, scooting to one side, making room for me to lie with her. Without hesitation, she nestles into the crook of my arm, her hand on my chest, her legs tangled with mine.

Martin nods at me as he moves to the door where he stills, one hand on the knob, the other rubbing his nape. I can see the battle in his eyes, unable to decide whether to close the door and give us some privacy, or leave it open so he has peace of mind.

“Leave it,” I whisper, making the choice for him.

He nods, the relief easing out of his shoulders. He’s gone a moment later, but he doesn’t go back to bed. Instead, I hear him in the kitchen, his footsteps moving, fridge door opening, coffee pot churning, and I know that, just like me, he won’t sleep. Not until we know our girl is no longer in pain. That the suffering is gone. That her past won’t take away from the joy of the present. At least for one night.

I focus on Becca, on stroking her hair and feeling the heat of her breaths on my chest, and I push aside all other emotions and remember how badly I wanted this. How badly I craved and missed this exact feeling. Every night away from her, in whichever hotel room I’d find myself in, I’d close my eyes and think about this, and during the months after Dad’s passing, it was the only thing that kept me going… this one thought… this one moment of calm and clarity.

Minutes pass until an entire hour ticks by and I spend that time switching between staring at the ceiling, staring at her, and listening to Martin in the kitchen. Slowly and carefully, I untangle her arms and legs from around me, making sure she’s still asleep before shrugging on my jeans and joining him.

“Coffee?” Martin asks, his voice low.

I nod and sit at the table, exhausted and overwhelmed.

“Couldn’t get back to sleep, huh?” he says, placing a mug in front of me.

I shake my head and rub my face. “Does that happen a lot?”

“Not as much as it used to. The last one was when she was at her grandmother’s during spring break.” He sits down, kicking out his legs to the side. “Her therapist says it happens whenever she feels as though she’s truly happy. It’s like her subconscious’s way of trying to make her believe that she doesn’t deserve it.” He takes a sip of his drink. “It’s messed up. Even in her death, her mother still finds ways to haunt that little girl.”

I almost tell him that Becca’s not a little girl, but I see her through a father’s eyes and I understand.

“To be honest,” he adds, “with you showing up the way you did, I was almost expecting it to happen.”

“You did?” I ask, looking up at him through my lashes.

“For her, true happiness means you, Warden.”

We sit together—two grown-ass men who once despised each other—and we find an even ground through the one thing that connects us. Becca.

We talk, not just about her, but about everything. I ask him about his work, he asks about mine. I thank him for cashing the blank check I gave him, even though it wasn’t anywhere near as much as I’d hoped he’d go for. He tells me what all the money went toward, as if I’d want to know. I don’t. I just want to make sure she’s taken care of. And the longer we sit, the more I get to know him, the clearer it becomes that with or without that money, Martin would have found a way. He would’ve moved mountains to take care of her, even if the strength it took to do so was eighteen years in the making.

We take turns making excuses to check on Becca, who seems to be back to sleeping deeply, peacefully. The sun begins to rise, the birds make it known it’s morning, and on my third coffee, Martin receives a phone call that has him standing quickly and heading right for Becca’s room.

I follow, of course, and watch as he nudges her awake with a hand on her shoulder. “Becca, wake up.”

She stirs slowly, her beautiful eyes clear of tears, and looks up at him. “Where’s Josh?” she signs.

I move toward her. “I’m here.”

Her dad says, “Lexy just called. She wants to see us. Get ready.”

Becca shoots out of bed and goes to her bathroom. A moment later, her shower turns on.

“Who’s Lexy?” I ask Martin.

“Her voice therapist. You coming?”

“Y-yeah,” I mumble, picking up my discarded clothes scattered all over the floor along with Becca’s bra and panties. I pick up her underwear and quickly shove them in my pocket, hoping he doesn’t see them.

But he does, because he cocks an eyebrow and points to my pocket. “Souvenirs?”

* * *

Becca sits in the middle of her dad’s truck, bouncing in her seat, while Martin drives. I sit on the other side of her, staring out the window, trying to forget the shame of this morning.