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“He’s asleep,” I whisper.
Aaron looks up from the mugs he’s stirring packets of instant coffee into. When he sees Sean’s eyes are closed, his limbs relaxed, his shoulders drop and he lets out a sigh of relief.
“He’s always been scared of the noise.”
“Did Amy wake up too?”
He smiles. “No. You know Amy. She thinks it’s an adventure, and then when she’s tired of the noise she rolls over and sleeps like the dead.”
That does sound like Amy.
A raging gust slams against the house, beating with renewed vigor. I look toward the walls, worried.
“This house has stood for a hundred years. Through a Cat 5, countless 3s, innumerable 1s. Don’t worry, Becca. A little storm isn’t going to blow it down.”
I glance back at him. “This is a little storm?”
He gives me a tilted smile and picks up the mugs. “You never did like hurricane season. You’re like Sean that way.” He sets the mugs on the wooden coffee table. “I’ll make him a bed out here. Hold on.”
He pulls two thin coral cotton blankets from the couch and piles them on the floor in a little nest. My arms are aching enough that I gladly lean down and carefully roll Sean onto the blankets. His eyelashes flutter and he tenses for a moment, so I set my hand on his chest and murmur, “Shhh, shhh,” until he relaxes back into sleep.
“I can stay out here. Sleep on the couch next to him,” I offer, glancing again at Aaron.
He has purple lines under his eyes, tired hollows in his cheeks. His hair stands up from where he thrust his fingers through it and stubble lines his jaw. He looks as if he could fall asleep standing up.
But instead of taking me up on my offer, he sits on the couch and rests his elbows on his thighs. He leans forward then and stares at the mugs of coffee.
So I sit next to him and reach for a cup. I take a hesitant sip. It’s exactly as I thought it would be—bitter and dark, cold—but since Aaron added about three tablespoons of sugar it’s also delicious in a middle-of-the-night stormy drink sort of way.
“Thank you,” I say, cupping my hands around the mug. I scoot closer to him until my bare thigh rests against his and my arm brushes the warmth of his.
My T-shirt inches up my thigh. Aaron looks down at my leg pressed to his. Then he looks back at the table and reaches for his cup of coffee.
He takes a long drink and then, looking down at his hands balancing the cup on his knees, he asks, “Where did you go?”
I glance quickly at him. Does he mean where did I go since I last dreamed? As in, Geneva? Or ...?
“What do you mean?”
He looks at me then, and his eyes are as storm-filled as the night outside. Thunder rumbles and the house shudders. Lightning flashes. The light leaks through the hurricane shutters and streaks across his face.
He looks into me. I swear. He isn’t looking at Becca—the woman everyone sees. He’s looking at me. Fiona.
“Two days ago I asked you if you felt what I felt?—”
“Two days?” My hands shake. I set the mug back on the coffee table. Some of the coffee spills on my hands.
“You made it clear I’m not ...” He looks up at the ceiling, then back to me. “And I couldn’t disagree, because I didn’t feel it anymore either. We were friends again. Parents. What we’ve always been. What we agreed to. That feeling was gone. But now here it is again. You walk in the room and all I want to do is kiss you. All I want is to love you. Tell me I’m wrong.”
The wind rises with his words and the house groans. I grip the hem of my T-shirt. Hold it tight.
“I can’t,” I whisper, my words barely heard above the storm.
He nods as if he knew that was how I’d answer all along. “Then it’s a dream,” he says. “You’re just a dream.”
Maybe so. Maybe that’s what reality is when you’re inside a dream.
When you’re awake your dreams aren’t real. When you’re dreaming your life isn’t real.
