Free Chasing Peace by Gloria Foxx Page A

just
happened. My eyes plead with confusion, seeking answers that only Boston has.
    He steps back, dropping his hands from my shoulders. I
watch, mute as he grabs my keys from the desk. “I’ll be back early.” A half
smile plays about his lips and his eyes sparkle as he backs toward the door. “Get
some sleep.”
    Boston looks like a man with a secret and he’s gone,
slipping into the darkness, before I can ask about it.

Chapter 7
    I love that moment when I first wake up, when I first come
into consciousness. I’m midway between sleep and alert and I gradually become
aware of myself. I recognize my life, the person I am, my place in the world,
the people surrounding me. When full realization hits, I find that moment to be
nothing more than a lie. A lie I desperately crave.
    The mind is a tricky thing. It wants to comfort and
reassure, to restore peace, if only for a minute. I revel in the respite,
however brief, when my mind wakes to better days, forgetting for a moment that
my world has changed. That first flash of consciousness hasn’t yet caught up
with current events, hasn’t yet reconciled with that which is different, hasn’t
yet reminded me that I’m sad, unless maybe that’s just my mind.
    This morning I have one more minute of peace before reality
comes crashing down as I wonder what I just heard, why I’m awake.
    I stretch warm and happy in the cocoon of my duvet. I
realize I’m sleeping on the futon instead of my bed. I wonder why and then I
know. I’m still warm, but no longer comfortable. My breath hitches at the
heaviness in my chest. I drag in air at a measured pace in an attempt at calm.
While I love the harmony that comes with the first blush of consciousness, I
hate the dawning realization that takes me through the trauma over and over
again. Sometimes the nightmares are better.
    “Sterling? Sterling? Are you awake?”
    That’s what I heard. Boston had my car last night and
planned to return it early.
    I never expected to drift off so quickly, but the tension
and stress of the evening floated away and I fell, sleeping deeply. I never
expected to come awake with Boston at my bedside either, but here he is,
kneeling beside the futon whispering.
    “I know you’re awake Sterling. Open your eyes.”
    “Leave me alone.”
    “Open your eyes Sterling.”
    I do. His face hovers over mine, close enough to be fuzzy,
except for his eyes, clear and bright. The warm citrus scent that can be only
Boston embraces me as I whisper, “You’re beautiful you know.” I’d thought it
before and right then, with my defenses lowered by sleep, I could admit it. He
is golden in the dim light slanting between the living room blinds. Loose curls
hug his ears and skim his neck. His lips quirk in amusement and his eyes glint
as I watch their harvest-tint, rich and deep in the dim light. “Are you
laughing at me?” I demand.
    “No. I’m thinking you’re the one who’s beautiful. Now, tell
me what happened last night?”
    “Are you flirting with me?” I smile child-like and teasing,
still not girded and fortified.
    The command in his voice is compelling. He isn’t mean, but
he isn’t playing around or flirting either. Boston is serious. “What happened
last night?”
    “You brought me home and then you left,” I pouted.
    “Before that Sterling.”
    “I bumped my head on the dumpster.” I couldn’t lie or
deceive. The line where sleep meets wake is a dangerous place to be. There are
no inhibitions, no shields for self-preservation, no half-truths or deceptions,
and no filters to censor my words and keep my secrets.
    If Boston asks about Emma, I’ll tell him everything. I’ll
talk until I recognize the words spilling from my lips and then I’ll stop,
upset about sharing my secrets. Unless like opening a shaken soda can, the
words keep coming, overflowing. Once begun they are relentless, never-ending
until the entire truth is revealed and calm prevails once again. He doesn’t
ask.
    “Where did you