Page 21 of In Somnis

I trace the familiar lines of muscle across my abdomen, and my stomach tightens when I remember what day it is. Thursday.

I exhale slowly and turn away from the mirror. The arrangement was never framed as an intervention, but it might as well be. My sister-in-law, Renée, worries about me, my schedule, my isolation, and my empty house. She calls it “family time” and insists it’s good for me to eat with them twice a week—breakfast on Thursdays, dinner on Sundays.

She’s not wrong. I am lonely.

But eating with other people is… work.

I quickly put on light brown chinos, a shirt, and over it, a green half-zip cardigan with patches on the elbows. My fourteen-year-old niece, Laura, once told me I look like a cliché psychologist when I wear it, which I took as both an insult and a compliment.

After putting on some moisturizer, I glance at myself in the mirror one more time, finding a version of myself that appears put-together and approachable. Exactly the version of me Nora Vaughn expects to see in a couple of hours, when I sit across from her daughter and justify, once again, why she’s invested so much in keeping me here.

Appearances matter to her.

And to me, whether I admit it or not.

I switch off the bathroom light—one of the few I allow myself to turn off—and make my way downstairs, already running through the rest of the morning in my head as I head for the front door instead of the garage to grab my bike that is leaning against the wall, helmet hanging ready from the handlebars.

I don’t drive unless I absolutely have to. I tell myself that if I stay far enough away from the wheel, I can’t become the man in my dream, so I walk or take my bike, telling myself it’s exercise and fresh air. On days when the rain is heavy, I stay home and cancel what I can justify. I sit with the windows lit and the house too quiet, because staying still feels safer than moving wrong.

I built my life around reducing risk.

I call it discipline for myself and mercy for her, but still, as I bike to my older brother’s house, I scan every stranger’s face, investigate every flash of blue, wondering absurdly if today is the day I see her alive instead of dead.

I don’t want to meet her. I know what happens to her when I do.

But I miss her every day.

The scent of wet earth follows me the closer I get, familiar and unwelcome all at once.

My father built the logging company, and the house beside it, with his hands, his back, and a kind of stubborn pride that never bent, not even when it should have. I grew up here, earned pocket money stacking, sorting, and sweeping wood, learning the business early. But logs roll, holes hide, and things crawl where the light doesn’t reach.

Shuddering, I push the thought away.

No, thank you.

When my father died eight years ago, my older brother stepped in without hesitation. I was relieved when he chose to keep the company running and carry the legacy forward, because God knows I was never meant for this work. I can admit that now without guilt, even though I’ve always known it. If anything, I’d rather take over the inn my Aunt Mabel built with stubborn love. It wouldn’t exactly be my dream job, but one I could grow into.

Hospitality has rules, systems, and clean lines. Logging does not.

I dismount and wheel the bike toward the porch just as the front door opens.

Renée steps out, already smiling, hugging a dark sweater close against the chill. “Paul,” she says warmly. “It’s good to see you.”

“Morning. It’s good to see you too.” At least that part’s honest.

Renée is beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with effort. She’s soft, attentive, and grounded. The kind of woman who notices when someone needs coffee before they ask and remembers small preferences without keeping score. I’ve always liked her, and sometimes, in quieter moments, I even envied my brother for her—not her specifically, but what she represents. Being chosen like that. Loved without negotiation.

I haven’t let anyone choose me in years.

When the night terrors started, I tried the usual methods of escape. Too much alcohol, casual sex, and staying busy until exhaustion passed for rest. None of it dulled the fear. It only gave it more room to grow. So I stopped. Everything.

No drinking, no distractions, no sex. I made a pact with myself and set a timeframe. I keep the rule because structure is the only thing that has ever kept me functional when my mind turns against itself. And yet, watching what Marcus has, I sometimes wonder what it would feel like to live in a world where love wasn’t a thing I was destined to destroy, where my soulmate could live with me instead of dying because of me.

“Come on.” Renée touches my arm. “They’re already at the table.”

I follow her into the adjoining room, where Marcus is seated with his teenage daughter, Laura, who’s half turned in her chair, one knee hooked under the table as she talks at rapid speed about something that clearly involves strong opinions.

My brother looks up and grins when he sees me. “What’s up, Doc?”