Page 93 of I'm Gonna Get You Back
Mitchell opens the correct cabinet and hands me a tall glass. “How do you know?”
I avoid his side-eye while I fill it up. “He told me.”
Their silence is indication enough that they’re exchanging aThat’sinterestinglook behind my back. I pick up the water glass and pills. “I’m just going to leave these in his room.”
“Take your time,” Mitchell calls after me.
I can practically hear Kenji’s jab to his ribs as they both chuckle.
My footsteps feel plodding and heavy as I walk down the familiar hall to his room. It’s lined with several photos of their parents’ wedding among the redwoods, their arms lovingly wrapped around Reid and Mitchell. Boys to be cherished.
I arrive at Reid’s closed door and knock softly. When there’s no answer, I gently push it open and find him asleep on his back, sprawled like a starfish. Still fully clothed on top of the gray comforter, though he did kick off his own shoes.
Stepping between piles of clothes, shoes, and a crate full of books, I make my way into the dark room, lit only by the small lamp beside his bed.
I set the water and pills on his nightstand, which has a few charging cords and is piled high with theGlass Swordspaperbacks, the spines cracked and covers worn from multiple reads. Drawing my finger across the tattered edges, my heart squeezes.
Reid turns onto his stomach, grumbling something indecipherable against his pillow. His arm hangs over the edge, his jacket bunching at his shoulders and under his rib cage.
As I start to pull his sleeve low past his hand to try to get it off him, he groans, “Fuckoff, Mitchell.”
“Calm down, you’ll sleep better if you’re comfortable.”
He lifts his head at the sound of my voice and looks over his shoulder. His brow furrowed and disbelieving. “Clara?”
I have to actively ignore the flip in my stomach at the sight of his hair so disheveled.
“I was trying to help you get your jacket off,” I say, my cheeks on fire.
He looks down himself, obviously confused, but nods slowly.
Together we make short work of it as he eases his arms out of the sleeves. I also hand him the pills, which he takes without protest, and he gulps down the entire glass of water.
“Why are you here?” he asks.
I can’t tell if he means here in his room or here for him. Either way the answer’s the same.
“I just want you to be okay,” I say quietly.
He sighs and lies back. “I haven’t been okay for a really long time.”
It’s the most honest thing he’s said all weekend, but Ihatehow resigned he sounds.
I’m sure he’s already passed out again by the time I stand and drop his jacket on the chair by his bed. I flip the light off and turn to slip out the door, but his warm hand closes around my wrist.
My pulse thunders as our eyes lock.
“Stay?” He bends his elbow and tugs—gently and just once. “Just for a minute?”
There’s a plea in his voice that strikes me deep.
I don’t know what it means that he asks, but I do know what it means that I want to. We’ve crossed somewhere that’s at once new and as well-worn as the books beside the bed. Keeping my eyes on his, I nod and sink onto the mattress beside him.
He hooks a strong arm around my waist and draws me close. I’m immediately overwhelmed—by the complete and total feel of him and the soft, warm sheets that smell like fresh laundry and his cologne.
He blinks slowly while his eyes roam my face, and it feels like even in the haze of sleep, he still sees me.Reallysees me. A tiny gasp escapes my lips as he grazes a thumb across my jaw. Him touching me like thisignites every tender memory between us. I wrap my fingers gently around his wrist in response, hoping he knows I see him, too.
Neither of us says a word. Something settles inside me for the first time in months as our breathing syncs and his eyes flutter closed, my hand in his.
