Page 86 of Power Play

I rubbed one palm over the back of my neck. “Sometimes.”

His jaw tightened. “Still having nightmares?”

“Those too.”

Briggs’s expression had gone serious again. I looked around the table and decided lying would be insulting.

“I’ve probably been dealing with PTSD my whole life. I just didn’t know what the fuck to call it when I was a kid. By ten, I was already sleeping light. By twelve, I knew how to tell whether a foster dad had been drinking based on what his footsteps sounded like in the hall. I knew which bedroom doors I needed to listen for and which adults were safer if I stayed out of their way.”

Easton’s brows drew together. “Did you ever leave?”

“More than once.”

“How young were you?”

I shrugged. “Depends what you count as leaving.”

Rider kept his voice quiet. “Sleeping somewhere else.”

“Twelve, maybe thirteen when it started happening regularly.”

Briggs stared at me. “You slept outside at twelve?”

“Sometimes.”

“Where the fuck did you go?”

“Wherever worked. Parks if it was warm. Stairwells. Laundromats if somebody forgot to lock one. A friend’s floor when I had a friend with parents who didn’t ask questions.”

Cade looked sick. He knew most of the broad version, but the details still landed differently.

“If the house was worse than whatever I thought might happen outside, outside won.”

Briggs rubbed one hand over his mouth. “Fucking shit.”

“I got good at it.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

“I know it doesn’t.” I took a drink and let the cold settle in my throat. “The point is, I thought I understood what trauma did. Hypervigilance, nightmares, sitting where I can see the exits, hating somebody behind me when I don’t know they’re there. My nervous system has been dramatic since childhood.”

Briggs almost smiled, but I was looking at Cade now.

“I just didn’t expect watching my best friend die in front of me to find a completely new place in my head.”

Cade’s eyes locked on mine. “You didn’t watch me die.”

“It was close enough.”

“I’m alive.”

“I know you’re alive.”

“That matters.”

“It’s what gets me back to sleep.” His expression softened while I kept my gaze on him. “I remind myself you’re alive. I picture you at practice bitching about Coach, threatening Briggs for eating your shit, and trying to organize everybody’s life because apparently you were born forty.”

Briggs lifted a hand. “In my defense, communal cabinets are legally complicated.”