Page 188 of Fighting Chance
Emmy and Layla’s giggles downstairs float toward my bedroom, the sound calming my heart.
Flopping back in bed, I can’t help but grimace and throw myself off the mattress. The sheets are drenched; it looks more like I pissed myself rather than had night sweats.
Jesus, these fucking dreams are doing my head in.
I’ve always had nightmares, have always had memories from my childhood plague my dreams, but they were mostly of the matron and everything she inflicted upon me. I thought I kept these memories with my mother buried in a box, locked in the deep depths of my mind.
But after that night with Layla, they resurfaced. It’s not her fault, but the feelings of not being chosen, not being good enough, and not being loved are vengeful.
Allie, Carlton, Grayson, and Drew, as close to family as I’ll ever get, put Band-Aids on those wounds, and this situation with Layla has ripped them clean off.
I don’t know how much longer I can do this for, how much longer I can suffer, because it’s not just during sleep. Every little thing is beginning to remind me of that time, even during waking hours.
And I fucking hate it.
If I were ever honest with someone, if I ever opened up, they would tell me to go to therapy. I’m no fool, I know I need it, but talking about it is fucking painful and traumatizing. I’d have to process the memories and emotions, go through them one by one, and just the thought of doing that has me wanting to sprint into my bathroom and puke.
One day I’ll be strong enough to face the memories, but that time isn’t now.
I thought I had this under control, I thought I made my conscious mind forget but it seems whether I like it or not I’m being forced to deal with it.
Scrubbing a hand down my face, I make a deal with myself—if the nightmares continue for another month…I’ll find someone to talk to about it, regardless of how I feel.
A shudder wracks my body.
What a horrible feeling knowing you’ll have to push yourself to talk about being forced to do something you didn’t want to do. Maybe that’s why I’m so adverse to therapy when it comes to these memories, it feels like another violation.
Picking up my phone, I see the bombardment of texts from Grayson reminding me that we’re going shopping today.
Groaning, I force myself to go through the motions, force my mind to come back to the present, and try to make myself excited, but I’m more nervous than anything that he’s going to see right through my bullshit like he always does.
Layla knew something was wrong, and I think she knew it went beyond our arrangement coming to an end. Her eyes, always so inquisitive and soft, so open and endearing, make me feel raw.
Make me feel as if I could lay my head in the crook of her neck, wrap my arms around her, and reveal everything going through my head, and that’s dangerous.
So incredibly fucking dangerous.
I’ve never told a soul about the “friends” my mom had.
Hence why I took one look at her in her adorable sweater, her glacial blue eyes, freckled covered face and kissed Emmy on the head, and hightailed it out of there.
Grayson was meant to pick me up, so he was a little surprised to find me eating a box of cereal on his couch watchingGilmore Girlswhen he came down his stairs. He didn’t comment on it, though.
For many, it’s a comfort show. For me, it’s what I never had—a loving mom. Sometimes when I was younger, I’d daydream that Lorelei was my mom.
“What’s going on with you?”
“Hmm?”
Grayson takes his seat belt off, and it’s only now that I realize we’re parked.How long have we been sitting here?
“I’ve given you your space, man, more than enough. Bella keeps saying I need to let you process your feelings, but this? Dude, you’re not yourself. I can’t even remember the last time you cracked a joke.”
Dropping my head against the headrest, I blow out a breath. “I know, okay? I know, I just?—”
“Can’t talk about it,” he finishes for me, knowing what I was already going to say.
“Trust me, if I could I would. I just really fucking can’t.” Physically, I don’t think I’d ever be able to get the words out.
