Didi
I told him I loved him. I’m a total idiot. I lie facedown on the bed and try not to imagine what Walker is doing on the other side of the wall. My immediate plan was to leave and drive back to LA, but it was getting late and I was crying too hard, and then Sanchez found me in my car and made me come back inside. He gave me his and Valentina’s room and they upgraded to a suite.
So here I am. For the night, at least.
A dozen times I’ve got up off the bed and thought about going and knocking on Walker’s door, but when I finally made it out of my room, I heard him and Sanchez and Dodds all talking and didn’t want to interrupt.
My eyes land on the clock. It’s 11.27 p.m. Is he sleeping? Or is he lying awake like me? I roll onto my side and bury my head under a pillow, but it does nothing to muffle the yell that suddenly comes from Walker’s room.
I throw the pillow aside and sit up. It comes again. A yell, as if he’s fighting off an attacker. My pulse is firing, my heart hammering. I get off the bed. A broken sob makes its way through the wall, and that’s enough to get my legs moving. I rush out into the hallway, forgetting that I’m only wearing an old T-shirt.
I try Walker’s door. It’s locked. Shit. I try knocking, but he doesn’t hear me. I glance up and down the darkened hallway. I could run to the lobby and ask for a key, but it turns out I don’t have to because José pops his head out of a room farther down the hallway.
He sees me and comes jogging toward me. “Walker?” he asks.
“I think he’s having a nightmare.”
José has a spare key and he unlocks the door. Then he stands back.
“I think maybe you should handle this one,” he says.
I start to protest, but then another cry twists my attention back into the room. I step inside and José pulls the door shut behind me.
The TV is on mute, the light throwing blue shadows over the bed. Walker is naked but for a pair of boxers. The sheets are tangled around his legs in knots and he’s thrashing on the bed, his face contorted as if he’s being tortured. Tears stream down his cheeks.
I sit down beside him and put my hand on his shoulder. He tenses and then jerks wildly, throwing my arm off. He growls something unintelligible, but undeterred, I wrap my arms around him and lie down behind him, holding him, stroking his hair back from his face.
“It’s okay,” I whisper in his ear. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve got you.”
He lets out a wracking sob and then his hand closes around my wrist, grips it tight. A man sinking in quicksand grabbing for a branch. It hurts, but I ignore it.
“Shhh,” I whisper. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
He mumbles something.
I lean closer to make out the words. “What?”
“Please don’t go. Please stay.”
I close my eyes, my arms tightening around him. “I’m not going anywhere,” I reassure him. Ever. The word rises unbidden in my mind.
His hold on my arm doesn’t loosen, but the rest of his body slowly starts to relax. I kiss his shoulder, making out for the first time the words that are inked there. A posse ad esse.
My Latin is rusty, but I think it means “from possibility to actuality” or “reality,” or something like that. I muse on the words. There’s so much possibility here, between us, in us. What’s it going to take to turn that into something real?
After ten minutes Walker’s breathing has settled to something approaching normal, and his grip on my arm has eased, though he hasn’t let go.
I prop myself up on my free arm. “Talk to me,” I whisper through the darkness.
He doesn’t respond, but I know he’s awake because I can see his eyes glimmering, reflecting the light from the television.
“Walker,” I say, stroking his arm. “Tell me about the dream.”
Again there’s no response, and I’m about to give up and lie back down when finally he starts talking, his voice low, raw-edged. I have to struggle to make out the words.
“I left them.”
“What?” I say.
Walker’s shoulders start to shake. “I left Bailey,” he chokes out. “And Lutter. They were my men. I left them behind.”
Understanding blazes through me. I squeeze Walker tighter, holding on to him as hard as he’s holding on to me. He’s started crying, quietly, burying his head in the pillow.
“It wasn’t your fault,” I tell him. “There was nothing you could do.”
He shakes his head angrily, then turns his face so I hear the next words clearly.
“You don’t get it. They were still alive. I left them to die,” he says. “There’s no getting away from that.”