“What kind of suggestion?” I ask. Sometimes she stops in the middle of a conversation, and I have to remind her what we’re discussing.
“Tess had night terrors when we were young. I used to sleep with her, and that helped her calm down.”
“Tess is your sister. Ethan and I barely speak to each other. Up until last Thursday, he hardly talked to me.”
“He’s having trouble adjusting,” she says. “I mean, his mother tried to kill him.”
“You know about that?”
She nods and tells me everything she’s heard. He’s from Texas. That explains the slight twang. She confirms that his mother tried to kill him. My heart is beating fast as I hear everything that he went through before he came to stay with his friend’s family.
“That’s a lot to deal with.” I glance at her and say, “But sleeping in the same bed with him is odd, don’t you think?”
“I’m telling you what worked for me. You might want to tell Dad or Tristan more about this issue. He needs professional help.”
“My therapist said the same. I just can’t tell him, ‘Hey, dude, I need to sleep. Would you mind going to a therapist?’”
She nods a couple of times. She strokes a couple of keys, I do the same, and soon we’re both playing Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. If everything in life were as easy as music, the world would be a different place.
Z’s Log, Stardate I can’t fucking remember. The creature’s sleeping pattern hasn’t changed. I haven’t slept more than one hour for the past year or weeks. I’ve lost count of the time. I guess this planet is different from Earth. Everything is blending because my roommate doesn’t let me sleep. Every time the night terrors begin, I wake him up, and we head to the music room.
The music we play is beginning to sound awesome. You know what they say, practice makes perfect. With all these nights practicing, we might end up starting a jazz band.
Though the prospect of becoming somehow famous is tempting, in reality, I need some sleep. I can’t continue living in this environment—or I’ll blow up the planet. Fine, let’s stop this Star Trek simulation and get real. If I can’t get any sleep, I might go to a hotel for a week to recover.
Seriously, something has to change. Tonight, I’m following Hannah’s suggestion, and I move to his bed, get under the covers, and reassure him that he’s safe.
“It’s just a dream,” I whisper. Instead of shaking him, I rub his arm. “No one is going to harm you.”
I can’t say what works, but he calms down and goes back to sleep. Once I’m sure he’s okay, I go back to my bed. Unfortunately, my attempt to help him is futile because he wakes me up a couple of hours later. I do everything repeatedly, and once he’s sound asleep, I go back to my bed—or so I think. The night feels like instructions from a shampoo bottle. Lather, rinse, repeat. By six o’clock in the morning, I’m exhausted.
When he wakes up, I say sarcastically, “You sleep well, sunshine?”
The fucker grins. “Yes. I didn’t wake up.”
The excitement in his voice stops me from telling him: Fucker, I couldn’t sleep for shit because you need babysitting.
His eyes have never been so bright. Well, at least not since the day we met. He’s a different person. Fine, I’ll let him have today, but if I have to do this all over again, I won’t spare his feelings. Z needs some Zs, no pun intended.
My phone buzzes. It’s Hannah.
Hannah: Are you coming to the flower shop? It’s the busiest day of the year.
“Fuck,” I mumble under my breath.
Zeke: I forgot.
Hannah: Another sleepless night?
I’m about to tell her that her stupid method didn’t work, but I refrain. It’s weird to say that I slept with him. Not only that, we kind of cuddled.
Zeke: It wasn’t pleasant, but I should be there soon.
“You okay?” Ethan asks.
“Yeah, I need to head to work,” I groan.
He reaches for his watch and mumbles something under his breath.
“What did you forget?”
“I also need to be at work,” he answers. “Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day.”
I arch my eyebrow. “Where do you work?”
“Hummingbird Flower Designs,” he answers.
“I work in the same place. Why haven’t I seen you there?” Instead of waiting for an explanation, I go and change into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt.
Since we’re working together, maybe Hannah can hint something like, “Go to fucking therapy.”
She’s subtle like that. Honestly, I don’t care how she says it. All I need is for him to do something before I go insane.
Chapter Eleven
Ethan
It’s been a week since I started sleeping through the night. When I wake up this morning, there’s an arm on top of my chest. I move my head slightly, wondering if this is yet another dream—a dream where I’m in bed with Tucker. I had plenty of those back in Texas, but they stopped. Also, it never happened when I was awake. When I look over my shoulder, I see Zeke next to me.
What the fuck?
I want to push him away, but I don’t. This feels so good. Really, why is he in my bed?
Is he gay or bisexual like me?
Don’t I wish? Not really. I couldn’t reciprocate his feelings. I mean, he’s handsome, but I have to avoid him. I swore that in this new life I wouldn’t let anyone know that I’m into guys too.
My goal is to be like any other straight sixteen-year-old guy. I’m just going to date girls. In my experience, being bisexual has only brought me grief and pain.
Instead of having an awkward conversation with Zeke about his presence in my bed, I head to the bathroom to take a shower. When I come out, he’s not in my bed or his. I go to look for him in the music room, but he’s not there. After searching everywhere, I realize he’s gone. I don’t know what to make of it after what happened earlier.
Again, why was he in my bed?
That’s freaky.
I go to the kitchen to prepare something to eat when the door opens. It’s him, carrying a paper bag and two paper cups.
“I brought breakfast,” he states, setting the bag on the counter. “You should be the one buying breakfast, but I’ll let it go for now.”
“Thank you?”
“You might be wondering, what the fuck was this guy doing in my bed?” He takes a sip from his cup, then hands me mine. “I don’t know if you like coffee—I don’t. Instead, I got you a vanilla crème. Hannah introduced me to them. They are the best thing next to vanilla shakes.”
I take the cup and say, “Can you explain?” I scratch the back of my neck.
This is awkward.
He sits on one of the barstools, digs into the paper bag, and pulls out a donut. After breaking it, taking a bite, and washing it down with his vanilla crème, he finally speaks. “Hannah mentioned that when her sister had night terrors, she’d sleep with her, and they would go away.”
I narrow my eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“Your dreams, dude. They’re these horrid nightmares that scare the shit out of me. You thrash, scream, and cry. If I wake you up, we spend the night in the music room,” I inform him. “Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy our music sessions, but I need to sleep. So, I tried her method.”