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“GEORGIA, WAKE UP!”
She heard the familiar voice. It cut through the images, pushing aside the terror. She no longer felt Louis’s body pinning her down, holding her in the open. The sounds—the rapid gunfire, the yelling—faded. The cloud of smoke she was fighting to breathe through vanished.
“Eric?”
“I’m here.” His hands pressed into her shoulders, drawing her up into a seated position. Her clothes clung to her damp body as she blinked, slowly taking in her surroundings. Her room at Eric’s house. The overhead light was on. He must have hit the switch. She glanced down, focusing on her breathing, knowing she needed the steady in and out to find her way back.
She dug her fingers into the sheets twisted around her. No one was shooting at her. Not here. She wasn’t carrying her friend’s body. She stared at her knuckles, watching them turn white, clutching the thin fabric. Nothing would hurt her here.
Except for her memories.
But only if she let them.
“You had a nightmare.”
Georgia looked up at Eric and saw the concern on his face. “Yes.”
“Georgia, you’re shaking.” He moved to the bed, drawing her into his arms, engulfing her in his strong embrace.
“I know.” She breathed—in and out, bury
ing the nightmare, beating back the terror. But the fear was still very much alive for him, she realized. He held her tight, as if the physical contact could literally keep her together.
But she wasn’t breaking. Not now, not ever.
“It was just a bad dream,” she said, fighting the slight tremble in her voice.
“The way you screamed . . .” His tone was rough with emotion as he reached for her, touching the side of her face. “It was pure terror.”
She captured his hand in hers, offering a reassuring squeeze. “I know.”
“This has happened before?”
She nodded. “Not for a while. But yes, it has.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was handling it.”
“By not sleeping,” he said grimly, as if he was starting to put the pieces together. “Georgia, that’s not a solution. You need help.”
“I told you, I’ve got this. I’m working through it.”
Eric raised his hand to her face, holding it there before brushing her cheek. The way he touched her was as if she were a scared animal. “Georgia, let me help you. Please. I love you. And seeing you like this . . . Christ, it tears me apart.”
She pushed free from his embrace and stood, willing her trembling limbs to hold her steady. Love. That one word gave her strength and cut her to the core at the same time. She wanted his love, but not like this, not tied so closely to pity and anxiety.
Eric rose too, reaching for her. She stepped back.
“Eric, look at me.” His eyes, still deep pools of seemingly bottomless worry, met hers.
“Do not mistake this for weakness,” she said. “I am strong. Don’t you dare doubt that. Ever. I don’t need you to be my hero. I don’t need you to protect me from my own memories. I don’t need a white knight rushing in to save me. I’m my own hero. And I will get through this.”
“Georgia, it’s OK to ask for help. That doesn’t make you weak. You went to war—”
“Uncle Eric?” The sound of Nate’s half-asleep little-boy voice filled the space. Eric crossed the room in two steps, crouching in front of his nephew.
“Hey there, buddy,” he said, his voice gentle and soft.