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But placing one between my lips and going through the motions of smoking one is one way to quiet the screaming in my head when I’ve had too real a replay of that red night thanks to my dreams.

It’s cold out when I sit on the stoop of the cottage. I’m only in sleep shorts and a tank top, but I’m not going back inside. Not yet.

I just hug my knees to my chest, resting my chin on them as I suck on the unlit tobacco.

I inhale as if it’s hot. Pull the cigarette from my lips and tap it as if it’s lit.

Exhale as if there’s something besides cold, scarred memories inside my lungs.

I close my eyes and hug my knees tighter as I try to center myself.

“I've heard those work better if you light them.”

A soft smile spreads across my lips.

This is what I need to be centered.

Him.

Even when he was “the enemy” and I wanted to stab him and bury him and forget where the body was, I could never get past the nagging sensation that when I was around Damiano, I felt grounded.

Not just unafraid and strong.

Tethered.

When your brain works like mine does, that's a rare and beautiful thing.

I slowly open my eyes, chewing on my lip as I lift my gaze. Damiano is standing a few feet in front of me, his brow furrowed in confusion—probably both at the cigarette in my mouth and how little I’m wearing, given it's the tail end of fall in New England.

“You’re back,” I say softly, smiling as best I can.

Damiano says nothing, just shrugs off his coat, walks up to me, drapes it over my shoulders and wraps it around me until I’m drowning in it. Then he plants himself down at my side.

“How…” I swallow. “How was your night?”

“That's not what I want to talk about,” he says gently, concern etched across his face. “What’s going on, little nightmare?”

I shrug my shoulders. “Couldn’t sleep. Bad dream.”

He nods at the unlit cigarette.

“You wanna tell me what that's about?”

I don't answer. I just turn to look out into the darkness, pulling the cigarette from my lips and exhaling nothing.

It’s not something I’ve been planning. In fact, I’ve never thought about it before. But in this moment, with him sitting right next to me and grounding me, it’s a simple decision.

Of course I’m going to tell him.

Because the idea of not doing so just feels wrong.

Because I don’t know how much longer I can keep the darkness and the past bottled up inside of me without it tearing me apart.

Because I trust him, implicitly.

“You talked to Arianna.”

It's not an accusation. It’s merely the first of several things that are about to come spilling out. She told me last week that he did, and I bottled it up and didn’t say anything, and I simply can’t do that anymore.