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Machines, crisp soap, and sandalwood cologne greeted Carmen as she pushed open the door to Sawyer’s room. The warm musky scent of sleep underlined everything. The rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing came from the bed across the room, and she experienced a fleeting pang of jealousy. How did he sleep so easily? Didn’t he have thoughts?
“Sawyer?”
He rolled over in the bed, the frame groaning under his weight, and mumbled something incoherent. Carmen took a step closer. The wood floor let out a startling creek, making her flinch. Warm milk sloshed across the back of her hand and splattered over her bare feet. “Damn it!”
Sawyer sat bolt upright with a grunt of surprise, the thin light from the half-open door falling in a sliver across his bare chest. He rubbed both his hands over his face and squinted at her. “Carmen?”
“I brought you some warm milk,” Carmen said. Only then realizing she hadn’t stopped to consider how idiotic it was to wake a man with something to help him sleep. Carmen set the mug on his little side table and stood by the bed, twisting her hands together. All the courage she had garnered from the wine had abandoned her at the doorway to his room.
“Carmen, what the fuck?” Despite Sawyer’s choice of words, his tone held only curious confusion. Before she could stop herself, Carmen reached out and pushed the mess of hair off his brow, smoothing it away from his cheeks. He sat motionless, but his eyes slid closed at her touch. She let the strands fall through her fingers and sighed.
“I want to talk to you,” she said.
“All right.” He scooted to the side and patted the bed beside him. Carmen crawled into the spot, warm from his body, and settled against the headboard.
“First off. That guy, I am not married to him.”
“I—”
“Shut it. I have something to say first.”
Sawyer obeyed, though his shoulders took on a stubborn set, and his eyes sparked blue flames at her.
“You had no right to speak to me that way. I have no idea what she did to you, Sawyer. I’m sorry you were hurt, but women are not all the same.”
“I—” he tried again.
“Uppbbubb.” Carmen held up a finger. His jaw clenched, but he didn’t speak.
“Billy and I were together for five years. We had—well, have—an apartment together in the city.”
He remained obediently silent, so she continued. “I was unhappy for a long time, but I wasn’t willing to admit it. Not till the end when it was too late.”
Her back ached, and she shifted, pushing a pillow against the headboard. Sawyer remained silent but adjusted himself. Without a word, he took her hand in his, setting it on his thigh and massaging gently.
“He started drinking and staying out all the time. Took up smoking again, even though he knows I hate it. In the last six months or so, we never saw each other, yet he still always demanded to know where I was. He got mad if I didn’t answer my phone.” Carmen swallowed. Allowing the story out was a tricky thing, opening the gates to everything she had tried so hard to lock away and forget.
Failure never came easily to her. She’d gone to therapy to try to work through it, and, surprise, a lot of it had come back to her mother. To Carmen’s inability to please her, to keep her from drinking. The years lost on her relationship with Billy hung on her as just that—failure. The loss of the life she thought she’d been diligently building. A more stable one than she’d had as a child. “He came home one night, reeking of perfume, and I lost my mind.”
“Understandable,” Sawyer muttered.
Carmen laughed. Even to her ears, the sound was bitter. “The thing is, I was glad. Glad for a way out of the stasis we were in. It was like a match to gasoline. The anger and the resentment poured out of us. I said things, things I shouldn’t have said and he . . . he snapped . . .” Carmen waved a hand toward her face. Sawyer’s eyes moved up to the bruise, his brow pulling low.
“He backhanded me,” Carmen said. “I think he only wanted to shut me up. He looked as shocked as I was after he did it. I actually thought he would cry.” She drew a deep breath through her nose and took a sip of her milk. “I knew he had issues, with anger. I’d seen it directed at people, other people, at work and stuff, but never at me.” When she saw the milk quaking with ripples, Carmen realized she was shaking.
“Can I talk for a second?” Sawyer asked, his voice rough and quiet. Carmen nodded.
“I should never have reacted like that; I should have figured it out right away.” Sawyer’s fingers tightened. “I don’t know what happened. I went a little crazy.”
Carmen looked at him. “I’ve done quite a bit of therapy and think it’s called projecting,” she whispered, unable to help herself.
Sawyer looked back at her; his eyes so serious it twisted her heart. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“Accepted.”
“Tell me what happened, after. Did you call the police?”
Carmen shook her head. “He never hit me before.” She wanted it all out, for the air between her and Sawyer to be clear. “I want you to understand I’m not some poor, battered woman.” Carmen’s voice broke, and she hated the weakness the minor hitch of breath belayed. “There are so many that have it much worse than I did.”
“That doesn’t mean what he did wasn’t wrong.”
“I know.” Carmen stared down at their joined hands, his so much bigger, stronger than her pale, long-fingered ones. “The next morning, I chased him out. He wouldn’t leave me alone. Followed me all day, apologizing over and over. He showed up at the school where I worked, and parents were upset. I couldn’t—” Her breath caught again. “Every time I looked at him, I saw his face when he pulled back his hand to hit me.”
She shook her head. The movement dislodged some moisture lurking behind her eyes. Drops slid down her cheek and dripped across their joined hands. “He wanted to hit me, I saw it in his eyes, but I do believe he was sorry afterward.”
With a shaky breath, Sawyer pulled Carmen against the warmth of his body. “I’m sorry.” He brushed a kiss over the faded bruise. “I’m sorry for what you went through, and I’m sorry for the way I acted. I jumped to a conclusion based on my own shitty experiences, and that wasn’t right.” Blood rushed to fizz below her skin, where his lips pressed.
“And I said I accepted your apology,” she said, snuggling closer. “I’m sorry, too, I have never been great at keeping my cool,” she said, wiping her eyes. “It’s the Irish blood.”
“So, what was that idiot doing at the hotel?” Sawyer asked after a moment.
“He followed me here.” She spat the words out like poison. Part of her still struggled to believe it was true. “I think he tracked my phone. When you dropped me off today, he followed me to my room. That’s why I texted you to come get me.”
Sawyer’s shoulder tensed under her head. “I think I saw him in the parking lot. Medium build, dark hair?”
Carmen nodded, her cheek brushing against the dusting of hair that covered Sawyer’s chest. “He followed me inside. I wasn’t watching close enough, and he held me against the wall.” She had not meant to tell him that part, but the words flew out in a rush of confession, leaving her dizzy. She raised her arm, allowing the sleeve of her shirt to fall back. At the sight of the marks there, Sawyer went still. Even his breath stopped ruffling her hair.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” There was an edge in his voice. Sharp as a steel blade.
“I didn’t want to make a big deal about it.”
“Carmen.” He pulled her closer. Slight tremors ran through the sinewy ropes of his forearms where it held her. “It is a big deal. He marked you, again. You need to go to the police.”
Carmen shook her head. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”
The furrow between his brow deepened. “How did you get away?”
“I told him I’d think about going home with him and would text him in the morning. Then I texted you.”
“Christ.” Sawyer’s chest dropped at his exhalation. “After all this, I bring you here and start yelling at you.” He brought her hands to his mouth and ran his lips over her knuckles. “You’re right. I’m an asshole.”
“I didn’t mean . . . well, actually, I did.” Carmen chuckled wetly. “In that particular moment, you were an asshole.”
“I know.” He drummed the fingers of his free hand against the bedspread a moment before looking down at her again. “Will you please consider going to the cops?”
“I really don’t—”
“Please, Carmen.”
She sighed. “I’ll think about it.”
They sat in silence for a moment, emotionally and physically drained. A yawn escaped Carmen.
“Sleep in here with me?” he asked, his voice soft, almost shy. He could not have paid her to leave, but Carmen didn’t tell him that. The warmth of his chest below her cheek was making her eyes droop.
“Okay,” she murmured.
They lay in quiet contentment, and the silence outside no longer seemed so strange to Carmen. She was floating in a muzzy pre-sleep state when Sawyer spoke quietly against her hair. “I used to be married. We were in love. Or at least I was.”
Carmen lifted a hand to his jaw but let it drop instead to tangle in the V of hair at his sternum. “What happened?” she whispered.
“I’m not sure I want to talk about her. Not now, but maybe one day. My divorce messed with me for a long time. But I wanted you to know. It’s why I reacted the way I did. She . . .well, it fucked me up.”
“I’m sorry.” She tipped her head up, trying to make out his face in the dim light. “Are you all right now?”
His chin bumped against her head as he nodded. “Yeah. I want her to be happy, and I’ve put my energy into moving on.” He cleared his throat and rolled onto his hip, pulling her back against his chest. “My brother told me I needed to get my head out of my ass and get over it before it ate me alive. His words, not mine. His professional advice, but I think he paraphrased the medical journals.”
Unsure what to say to that, Carmen pulled his arm over her chest and curled up against him. They lay spoon fashion, and in seconds his soft breathing filled her ears like a lullaby.