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4.
Henry sat in the armchair across from the couch. His notebook lay open in his lap, though he hadn't written a word all night—didn't know what to write, couldn't think for the worries that hurtled around his mind like the debris picked up by a tornado:
What had happened? Had someone hurt her? Someone must have hurt her. How did they hurt her? Did they—? No, he didn't want to think that. Didn't want to know if it was that. But what if it was that? He had to know.
While the worries raged, he tapped his pen against the arm of the chair, gaze fixed on Elizabeth. She was frowning in her sleep. Every so often her frown would deepen into a pained expression and her limbs would jerk and then thrash, fighting off the blankets. Each time, he would rush to her side, abandoning his notebook on the coffee table as he passed; he would kneel in front of the couch and make hushing sounds, as if she were a child frightened by a thunderstorm, and he would assure her again and again and again, It's okay, It's okay, though deep down he knew it was anything but; eventually her body would give up and still, and he would drape her in the blankets once more, retreat to the armchair, collecting his notebook on the way past, and resume his watch.
Then there were the times, the many times, when she would wake with a gasp and jolt upright.
Just like she did now.
Henry hurried to the couch. He crouched down, so he was lower than her, not looming over her. The scent of his shower gel enveloped her, thicker than the woollen blankets—she must have used the entire bottle.
"It's okay," he said. "I'm here. You're at my apartment." He picked up the half-empty glass of water from the coffee table and held it out to her. "Here, have a sip."
Her gaze flailed around the room, bouncing off every surface in an agitated disorientation, like she was being flung through a vortex of space and time, before finally it found him.
She held his gaze, the pulse in her neck visible. Slowly, the terror drained from her eyes.
"Here." He pressed the glass towards her again.
She stared at it for a long moment, then accepted it and took a sip. Her skin looked grey in the pale dawn light.
She handed back the glass, and as he set it down on the coffee table with a faint knock, she gathered her knees to her chest and eased across the cushion, tucking herself into the corner of the couch. Though she was slight, he'd never thought of her as small, and certainly not fragile, but now, swamped in his tee and sweats and blankets, she looked more fabric than person.
He rose from his squat and tentatively perched at the opposite end of the couch, next to where her toes peeked out from beneath the blankets; he kept his attention on her as he moved, making sure his proximity was all right, that he wasn't doing anything to startle her. But she didn't freeze or seem distressed at all, just continued staring at (through?) her lap.
For a while, he watched her. The air between them felt thick, as if all the questions and worries that had teemed in his mind all night had leached out into the room and formed an invisible fog. Something must have happened at the party for her to call him like that, for her to be like this. He needed to know what. But he didn't know what to say, where to start.
"How are you feeling?" he said, his voice soft, little more than a murmur.
If it were possible, Elizabeth's gaze lowered further. In front of her shins, her fingers plucked at and kneaded each other.
"Do you want to tell me what happened?"
She carried on, staring through her lap, fingers wringing.
"Elizabeth…if someone—"
She looked up and met his gaze. She tried to smile, but it was weak and watery, and tears glazed her eyes. "Nothing happened."
He frowned. Nothing didn't leave you barefoot on the street outside a frat house. Nothing didn't drive you to drown yourself in shower gel. Nothing didn't terrorise you in your sleep.
"Elizabeth…whatever it is—"
"Please, Henry."
The way she said it, the way she looked at him, she was literally begging him to leave it be. Whatever happened last night, for now she needed it to be nothing, for the sake of her sanity.
Of course, pretending it was nothing wouldn't protect her or her sanity in the long run, perhaps not in the short run either, not truly, but he didn't want to push her, not when she wasn't ready.
"Okay," he said. "What do you need?"