Page 93 of The One Month Boyfriend (Wildwood Society)

“It probably won’t happen, but sometimes I don’t sleep well,” he says.

I look over. He’s on his back, staring at the ceiling, one arm over his head, not looking at me, something set and determined in his blurry form. It doesn’t take much to figure out what he means.

“Nightmares?”

“Something like that.”

I roll my eyes in the dark and move onto my side again, trying to get comfortable.

“You can just say yes, for fuck’s sake.”

“Yeah. Nightmares,” he says, voice flat. “Hardly ever any more, but I wanted to let you know.”

The pillow is so squishy that I can only see him with one eye, still staring up at the ceiling like he’s made of stone, and something about it makes me bite back whatever sharp retort I was going to make and just see him.

Silas, with eyes like lakes and secret freckles. Silas, who talked me down from a panic attack. Silas, who has nightmares and agreed to come on this impulsive, creepy vacation and share a bed with me anyway.

Silas, who’s mended with gold and still staring at the ceiling like he can’t bear to look at me.

“How do I help if you do?” I finally ask.

“Just wake me up and go back to sleep,” he says.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

I want to push him into a real answer, here, in the dark, in this bed we’re sharing, on this vacation we’re taking together for reasons that are starting to feel so snarled that I’m less sure what they are with every passing moment. I want to slice through the layers he’s put up around himself, and press my hand against whatever’s underneath.

I want to tell him he can trust me. That he can use me however he needs me.

I want to kiss him again. I really fucking want to kiss him again.

But instead I look back at the ceiling and wish there were two beds. I wish there were two rooms. I curse my bravado last night, when we made these plans and I was so sure that two mature adults sharing a single king bed wouldn’t be a big deal.

I should have never done this. All this pretending is fucking with my head, and God knows my people-reading ability was shit to begin with as evidenced by my entire relationship with Evan. With Silas it’s constant, branching possibilities of is this desire or agreement, of are we pretending and how much are we pretending?

Is there a percentage? Is ten percent of every kiss true? Twenty? How much of a kiss is true between actual romantic partners, and can it ever be a hundred percent or does every human on earth always hold something back?

These are not useful thoughts, and I know it. Silas is silent. I close my eyes. I count my breaths.