“Becca!” I whisper loudly, trying not to spook her.

“No,” she cries.

I shake her shoulder but her eyes won’t open. “Becca!”

“Please,” she cries, louder this time.

“Becca!” I sit up now, my legs under hers, my heart pounding, struggling for breath while I watch a single tear trickle from her closed eyes. Her head moves from side to side, her hands gripping my shirt. I scoop her up and onto my lap. “Becca.” I run my hand through her hair, rocking her, trying to get her to wake up. But she won’t. She’s crying now—silent cries and broken breaths.

She gasps loudly, her eyes squeezing shut and I lift her head and bring it to my chest. I keep rocking, keep soothing, all while she cries in my arms. “Becca you need to wake up. Please!”

But she doesn’t. Her cries grow louder. Her grip gets tighter, pulling my shirt down and away from my body.

“Stop!” she shouts, the fear in her voice causing a fear in my heart.

“Becca.” I kiss her forehead.

Rocking.

Soothing.

I don’t know what else to do.

Suddenly, she tenses in my arms. “You did this,” she whispers, and I don’t know if she’s talking to me or—“I didn’t mean to,” she cries. She repeats this. Over and over. And each time she does the fear in my heart escalates.

“Wake up,” I whisper in her ear. “Please, baby.”

Slowly, I feel her body relax. Mine doesn’t. I watch, and I wait, hoping she’s come to. Her cheeks are wet with tears, soaking through my shirt—the shirt she slowly releases. Her eyes stay closed while her hand glides up my chest and to my neck. She whispers my name, and I finally release the breath I’d been holding. But then she starts to cry again, quiet and contained, and it hurts more than when she was dreaming—because she’s aware now, and whatever she feared in her sleep is the same fear she has when she’s awake.

I kiss her temple.

I rock.

And I soothe.

“It’s okay,” I tell her. “I’m here.”

She cries harder.

I stay silent, not wanting to make it worse.

I hold her.

She lets me.

And after minutes that feel like hours, she pulls away, her eyes lowered. Without a word, she stands up and heads for my door. I go after her. “Becca, you don’t have to go.”

She stands still, hands at her sides and her gaze lowered. She opens the door.

I follow.

“Becca.”

Finally, she looks up, and my heart hurts.

My emerald eyes should never look so broken.

“I have to,” she whispers.

I reach for hand but she flinches and pulls away.

She’s not letting me touch her.

“Becca.”

She turns away.

And then she walks away.

-Becca-

I try not to blink.

Even that millisecond of darkness brings back the fear.

And I hate the fear.

As much as I hate the darkness.

My grandmother sits up higher on the couch when I enter the house. I check the time. It’s close to midnight. I open my mouth.

Her eyes widen.

I want to tell her she shouldn’t have waited. I decide not to tell her anything.

She sighs and closes the book in her hands, then sets it on the coffee table. She gets up, closes in on me and every single part of me turns to stone. “I’m sorry,” she says, standing a few feet away. Her eyes look tired. And worried. “I know you’re an adult but I’m not used to having someone living with me. I can’t help but wait and worry about you, Becca.” She pauses a beat. “And I guess maybe you’re not used to having someone waiting and worrying about you, either.” She smiles, one that deepens the wrinkles around her eyes. “We might have to work on this.”

She starts to leave but I grasp her hand—remembering Josh’s words.

Her breath catches and her gaze moves from my hand up to my eyes. Her eyes are dark, matching her skin. She’s beautiful. I’ve wanted to tell her that before, but I hadn’t known how. I look at the contrast of our skin colors. I’m a shade lighter—a mix of races. Then I lift my gaze and through the fear of the darkness and the aching of my heart, I smile. “Good night, Grams.”

10

-Joshua-

I wait anxiously, my hands on Tommy’s shoulders, while Chazarae runs up the stairs to get her. The first thing he asked when he woke up was to play in the damn sandpit, of course, followed closely by whether Becca could play too.

Footsteps approach and the louder they become, the louder my heart beats. I’m not sure if I’m excited or nervous or afraid or if possible all three at once. She comes into view, wearing pajamas, her hair a mess and her eyes tired. “Did we wake you?”

Without looking at me, she shakes her head and bends down to Tommy’s level.

“Come play in my sandpit?” he asks.

She smiles the saddest smile I’ve ever seen and slowly shakes her head. She holds her palms together and puts both hands on the side of her face, indicating that she’s tired.

Beneath my hands, Tommy’s shoulders slump. “Little bit?” he asks.

She stands to full height, her head still lowered.

“Becca’s tired, bud. Why don’t you go ahead?” I release him and motion to the back yard. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Okay,” he mumbles, before leaving us alone.

I wait until he’s out of earshot before speaking. “Are you okay?”

“Tired,” she whispers.

“You didn’t sleep well?”

She sighs and finally looks up. She starts to speak but my phone rings—cutting her off. She raises her hand in a wave and slowly closes the door in my face.

“Fuck,” I whisper, reaching into my pocket. Chloe’s name flashes on my screen and for a moment I panic. I hit answer. “Everything okay?”

“Jesus Christ, Shitstain, I’m in remission, not on my deathbed. You don’t need to panic every time I call.”

I chuckle under my breath. “You’re bright and chipper this morning. I’d call you names, but it’s not nice to tease girls. Besides, your life sucks enough. You’re married to Hunter.”

She cries out in pain.

“What? What happened? Chloe!”

She cackles with laughter. “Sorry, I was just reacting to your epically shitty burn.”

I shake my head and make my way over to Tommy. “What do you want?”

“Well… I’m here visiting my parents.”

“Oh yeah? Hunter’s playing away this week, right?”

“Yup.”

“So what’s up?”

“Tommy.”

I laugh. “What about him?”

“Can I come and play?”

A half hour later she shows up with gifts from her and Hunter—mainly Duke merchandise and a little Duke jersey with Hunter’s name on the back. We’ve been to his games a few times and Hunter always manages to get us all access tickets, locker rooms and all. I don’t think Tommy fully understands how much of a big deal his Uncle Hunt really is. “You didn’t have to get him all that,” I tell her, walking her from her car to the back yard. I glance up at Becca’s window for the tenth time this morning. She’s not there. She never is.