Memories of that fateful night flash with every bolt of lightning, totally wreaking havoc on any sense of calm I’ve achieved. I’m too old to be afraid of the dark, but that doesn’t change the fact that I am. I see death and destruction lurking in its shadows, and panicked feelings claw up my throat, tightening it like a noose. I should have outgrown this anxiety by now, and I’m ashamed that I haven’t.
In the echo of each crack, I can still hear the phone ringing, the one next to the fridge in my family’s kitchen. Then I hear the hurried shuffle of my dad’s slippers from his post at the living room window to the phone. It was his crying that pulled me out of bed, and I tiptoed on cold toes to the kitchen.
I will never forget Dad’s near-animalistic wailing, or the sight of him crumpled on the linoleum floor. I’d never heard him cry before that night. I would later learn that Mom’s car was crushed by the impact of another vehicle, the roads slick with freezing rain. All I knew in that moment, though, was that something was terribly wrong.
When the storm began around nine o’clock this evening, I managed to stay bundled up with Hobbes in the guest room for the first hour of rainfall. But then lightning began painting the room white in violent strokes. So, with trembling hands, I carried Hobbes with me to Grant’s bedroom, which is larger and somehow cozier with a big fluffy king-size bed and a soft wool rug on the floor. And since he isn’t home, I didn’t see the harm in camping out in here for a little while until the storm passes.
After setting Hobbes down on the dark blue duvet, I rushed to the sole window in his room to close the heavy curtain, muffling the roaring thunder behind a single pane of thin glass and, thank God, the thick drapes. Once I snuggled into bed, I caught Grant’s scent on the pillow, masculine and with a hint of spice from whatever products he uses. Wrapped in his sheets, I suddenly felt protected. Strange how comforting this smell is.
Now, at least an hour has passed. I’m beginning to doze off, my nose tucked under the sinfully soft sheets. I find myself savoring every inhalation of Grant’s comforting shampoo. Or is it body wash? There I go again, thinking about him in the shower . . .
Click.
My eyes flutter open, adjusting to the sudden light in the corner of the room. What time is it?
Grant is home, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the bright interior of the walk-in closet. After a few blinks, I can make out the full form of his body, removing the suit he’s required to wear while flying with careful, quiet motions. He moves as silently as he can, trying not to wake me.
Oh no . . . how long have I been asleep? From the way his sheets are twisted around my legs and my dog is nowhere to be seen, it’s been hours.
I would be embarrassed, but I’m too awestruck to care. I haven’t slept through a storm in . . . at least a decade. Usually, the best I can do is pop a sleeping pill and hope the nightmares don’t leave me with muscle tension in the morning.
Amazingly, the rain still pours outside, but the thunder is only a low rumble. The little girl in me wants to dive back under the duvet and snatch a few more hours of peaceful sleep, but the adult knows I need to give Grant his bed back. And apologize.
I sit up, and Grant must hear me rustling in his bed because he turns around.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs softly, his eyes wide and his hands hovering over the buttons of his dress shirt.
Through the opening of the shirt and the way the rain-drenched fabric clings to his chest, I can make out every delicious muscle. Even in the dim light of the room, I’m taken with how strikingly handsome this man is. Beautiful, even.
“No, I’m sorry,” I say, clearing my throat. “I wasn’t sleeping well in the guest room because of the storm.” I swing my bare legs over the side of the bed, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes.
Grant glances at the drape-covered window, then takes a step toward me. “I figured.” He nods, gesturing to the door. “I was going to crash on the couch. Just need to change. You can stay right there.”
My lips part. I close my eyes with a resigned sigh, my gaze downcast.
I can’t shake the feeling that I’m taking advantage of him. I’ve disrupted his world with my personal problems, and now I have the audacity to sneak into his bed?
When I open my eyes, I see Grant’s sock-covered feet cross the wooden floor to the side of the bed, where he stands over me. I can’t bear to meet his eyes. I don’t know what will come out of my mouth if I do.
“Are you all right?” he asks, his hands at his sides.
Thunder cracks outside, and I jolt involuntarily. I don’t have time to kick myself for my skittishness because I’m suddenly staring into two warm eyes, my shoulders held tightly in his hands as Grant kneels down before me. I feel so incredibly naked right now . . . even more so than when he actually saw my naked body.
“Hey, what can I do?” he asks, his eyes searching my face with a concern I never expected.
I have no idea what’s come over me, but in this moment, I ache for his attention and care, after years of having neither. It’s hard not to when he gives it so freely.
“Can you . . .” I hesitate, uncertain of what I’m about to suggest. “Can you stay in here?”
It’s a bold question, but his eyes don’t leave mine.
“I can’t sleep after a game. I don’t want to keep you up.” His voice is soft, but deep.
“You won’t,” I say, scooting across the mattress. I pat the warm space on the bed next to me. “Would you just lay here for a while? Next to me?”
He seems to consider this for a moment. I’m certain he’s going to come up with some excuse about respecting my space, or something equally as dumb and gentlemanly.
Instead, I feel the mattress give as he leans over the bed, carefully lying on his back so his body is across from mine, one hand sandwiched between his head and the pillow. He keeps a safe distance between us, his gaze glued to the ceiling, his expression unreadable.
“Thank you,” I whisper, and I lie down on my side, the pillow cool against my cheek. I take a moment to stare at his profile now, memorizing the faint lines around his eyes, the sharp angle of his nose, the plump outline of his lips.
After a prolonged moment of silence, Grant’s lips part. “Are you sure you’re okay?” His voice is strained, like he’s on edge about something.
I hope it’s not me.
“I don’t know,” I say, my emotions floundering somewhere between fear and fascination. For as loudly as the rain beats against the window, the beating of my heart thrums even louder in my ears. “My mom died the night of a storm. They’ve bothered me ever since.”
Bothered me are the words I use, but according to the therapist I saw for years afterward, it’s actually anxiety. There are pills that could help me, but I never bothered taking them. They made me feel fidgety and weird.
“How can I help?”
Grant turns his face just enough so that his eyes can meet mine. I’m a buttery puddle in the warmth of his gaze.
“Hold me?” I rasp out the words without thinking.
The storm outside is like a faint memory. Now, the only sound I can hear is my blood pumping through my veins. What am I doing? Yes, having his arms around me will help, but I have no right to ask that of him.