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“Good night, Big Guy.” There’s a pause. “Thank you.”
I kiss her head. “Any time.”
I’m shocked by how quickly she falls asleep again. I figured she’d be awake for hours. Apparently, those endorphins are quite effective. Once her breathing is steady, I reach for my phone and draft a text to send at a more reasonable hour. I need advice from Lila and Tucker about waking Charlie up when she’s trapped in a bad episode. They took care of her while I was still in Afghanistan. Maybe they can guide me in the right direction.
Charlie awakens a couple of hours later, long before her usual wake-up time. “My head is killing me,” she mumbles, rubbing her neck at the base of her skull.
“Want some aspirin?” When she nods, I pass her a water bottle and a couple of tablets, which she quickly downs.
“Thanks.”
I remember what she said last night. “How about I rub your neck and shoulders?”
“Really?”
I nod. “Roll onto your stomach.” I wait for her to turn over, then move her thick hair to one side and slip my hands beneath the back of her tee shirt. My jaw clenches and my stomach knots as my fingers slide over the thickly textured scars along her back and shoulders.
Those fucking bastards.
Her muscles are as taut as steel cables. I start at her shoulder blades and gradually work up to her neck. I massage for a long time, feeling the tension in her muscles ease as my fingers unravel each tight knot. I work until her neck and shoulders are fully relaxed, then move to the base of her skull, finding more tense areas and kneading them into submission.
“Do you want a job?” Her voice is muffled. “Because I’ll hire you in a flat second. Not for the clinic. Just for me.”
I chuckle. “You can’t afford me. I’m easy, but I’m not cheap. Did that help?”
She nods. “My head still hurts, but my neck feels much better.”
“Try to go back to sleep. When is your first massage?”
“Not until ten. I can sleep a little later this morning.”
I wait while she settles facing the door, then curl behind her while she dozes again. I smile when she drags my arm around her waist in her sleep.
Charlie sits up sleepily when her alarm goes off. I watch her stretch. “How are you feeling this morning?”
“Like a bird made a nest in my mouth and stuffed my head full of feathers. I’m going upstairs to brush my teeth,” she mumbles.
“There are extra toothbrushes in my bathroom,” I remind her. “Why don’t you just start brushing your teeth down here?”
“Sold.” She stumbles into the bathroom, reappearing a few moments later, pulling her hair away from her face.
“How’s your headache?”
“Better. I just need a big dose of caffeine.”
I smile. “I already started the coffee.”
“You’re a beautiful, brilliant man. Just for that, I’m making you toast. With jelly,” she adds, flashing me a perfect but sleepy smile.
When she goes upstairs, I send the text I drafted last night. I don’t know anything about full-blown night terrors except (now) what not to do. I need guidance so I can help Charlie with her pain as much as she’s helped with mine.
CHARLIE
Thursday is ridiculously long. Not only am I tired from last night’s episode, I’ve also somehow scheduled four fifty-minute, back-to-back (to-back-to-back) massages for the second day in a row. When my last one leaves at two, I flop into a chair at the table in the communal kitchen, rubbing my throbbing right hand with my aching left one.
Tom breezes into the kitchen, whistling as he heads for the refrigerator and pulls out a bottle of water. He sits down beside me and takes a long drink, then gives me a quizzical look.
“What are you doing?”
