Restore Me (Shatter Me Book 4)

Loneliness is a strange sort of thing.

It creeps up on you, quiet and still, sits by your side in the dark, strokes your hair as you sleep. It wraps itself around your bones, squeezing so tight you almost can’t breathe, almost can’t hear the pulse racing in your blood as it rushes up your skin and touches its lips to the soft hairs at the back of your neck. It leaves lies in your heart, lies next to you at night, leaches the light out from every corner. It’s a constant companion, clasping your hand only to yank you down when you’re struggling to stand up, catching your tears only to force them down your throat. It scares you simply by standing by your side.

You wake up in the morning and wonder who you are. You fail to fall asleep at night and tremble in your skin. You doubt you doubt you doubt

do I

don’t I

should I

why won’t I

And even when you’re ready to let go. When you’re ready to break free. When you’re ready to be brand-new. Loneliness is an old friend standing beside you in the mirror, looking you in the eye, challenging you to live your life without it. You can’t find the words to fight yourself, to fight the words screaming that you’re not enough never enough never ever enough.

Loneliness is a bitter, wretched companion.

Sometimes it just won’t let go.

—AN EXCERPT FROM JULIETTE’S JOURNALS IN THE ASYLUM

The first thing I do upon my return back to base is order Delalieu to move all my things into Anderson’s old rooms. I haven’t really thought about how I’ll deal with seeing Warner all the time. I haven’t considered yet how to act around his ex-girlfriend. I have no idea what any of that will be like and right now I almost can’t be bothered to care.

I’m too angry.

If Nazeera is to be believed, then everything we tried to do here—all of our efforts to play nice, to be diplomatic, to host an international conference of leaders—was for nothing. Everything we’d been working toward is garbage. She says they’re planning on wiping out all of Sector 45. Every person. Not just the ones living at our headquarters. Not just the soldiers who stood alongside us. But all the civilians, too. Women, children—everyone.

They’re going to make Sector 45 disappear.

And I’m feeling suddenly out of control.

Anderson’s old quarters are enormous—they make Warner’s rooms seem ridiculous in comparison—and after Delalieu has left me alone I’m free to drown in the many privileges that my fake role as supreme commander of The Reestablishment has to offer. Two offices. Two meeting rooms. A full kitchen. A large master suite. Three bathrooms. Two guest rooms. Four closets, fully stocked—like father, like son, I realize—and countless other details. I’ve never spent much time in any of these rooms before; the dimensions are too vast. I need only one office and, generally, that’s where I spend my time.

But today I take the time to look around, and the one space that piques my interest most is one I’d never noticed before. It’s the one positioned closest to the bedroom: an entire room devoted to Anderson’s enormous collection of alcohol.

I don’t know very much about alcohol.

I’ve never had a traditional teenage experience of any kind; I’ve never had parties to attend; I’ve never been subjected to the kind of peer pressure I’ve read about in novels. No one has ever offered me drugs or a strong drink, and probably for good reason. Still, I’m mesmerized by the myriad bottles arranged perfectly on the glass shelves lining the dark, paneled walls of this room. There’s no furniture but two big, brown leather chairs and the heavily lacquered coffee table stationed between them. Atop the coffee table sits a clear—jug?—filled with some kind of amber liquid; there’s a lone drinking glass set beside it. Everything in here is dark, vaguely depressing, and reeks of wood and something ancient, musty—old.

I reach out, run my fingers along the wooden panels, and count. Three of the four walls of the room are dedicated to housing various, ancient bottles—637 in total—most of which are full of the same amber liquid; only a couple of bottles are full of clear liquid. I move closer to inspect the labels and learn that the clear bottles are full of vodka—this is a drink I’ve heard of—but the amber liquid is named different things in different containers. A great deal of it is called Scotch. There are seven bottles of tequila. But most of what Anderson keeps in this room is called bourbon—523 bottles in total—a substance I have no knowledge of. I’ve only really heard about people who drink wine and beer and margaritas—and there’s none of that here. The only wall stocked with anything but alcohol is stacked with several boxes of cigars and more of the same short, intricately cut drinking glasses. I pick up one of the glasses and nearly drop it; it’s so much heavier than it looks. I wonder if these things are made of real crystal.

And then I can’t help but wonder about Anderson’s motivations in designing this space. It’s such a strange idea, to dedicate an entire room to displaying bottles of alcohol. Why not put them in a cabinet? Or in a refrigerator?

I sit down in one of the chairs and look up, distracted by the massive, glittering chandelier hanging from the ceiling.

Why I’ve gravitated toward this room, I can’t say. But in here I feel truly alone. Walled off from all the noise and confusion of the day. I feel properly isolated here, among these bottles, in a way that soothes me. And for the first time all day, I feel myself relax. I feel myself withdraw. Retreat. Run away to some dark corner of my mind.

There’s a strange kind of freedom in giving up.

There’s a freedom in being angry. In living alone. And strangest of all: in here, within the walls of Anderson’s old refuge I feel I finally understand him. I finally understand how he was able to live the way he did. He never allowed himself to feel, never allowed himself to hurt, never invited emotion into his life. He was under no obligation to anyone but himself—and it liberated him.

His selfishness set him free.

I reach for the jug of amber liquid, tug off the stopper, and fill the crystal glass sitting beside it. I stare at the glass for a while, and it stares back.

Finally, I pick it up.

One sip and I nearly spit it out, coughing violently as some of the liquid catches in my throat. Anderson’s drink of choice is disgusting. Like death and fire and oil and smoke. I force myself to take one quick gulp of the vile drink before setting it down again, my eyes watering as the alcohol works its way through me. I’m not even sure why I’ve done it—why I wanted to try it or what I’m hoping it’ll do for me. I have no expectations of anything.

I’m just curious.

I’m feeling careless.

And the seconds skip by, my eyes fluttering open and shut in the welcome silence and I drag a finger across the seam of my lips, I count the many bottles again, and I’m just beginning to think the terrible taste of the drink wasn’t really that bad when slowly, happily, a bloom of warmth reaches up from deep within me and unfurls individual rays of heat inside my veins.

Oh, I think

oh

My mouth smiles but it feels a little crooked and I don’t mind, not really, not even that my throat feels a little numb. I pick up the still-full glass and take another large gulp of fire and this time I don’t dread it. It’s pleasant to be lost like this, to fill my head with clouds and wind and nothing. I feel loose and a little clumsy as I stand but it feels nice, it feels nice and warm and pleasant and I find myself wandering toward the bathroom, smiling as I search its drawers for something

something

where is it

And then I find it, a set of electric hair clippers, and I decide it’s time to give myself a haircut. My hair has been bothering me forever. It’s too long, too long, a memento, a keepsake from all my time in the asylum, too long from all those years I was forgotten and left to rot in hell, too thick, too suffocating, too much, too this, too that, too annoying

My fingers fumble for the plug but eventually I manage to turn the thing on, the little machine buzzing in my hand and I think I should probably take off my clothes first, don’t want to get hair everywhere do I, so I should probably take my clothes off first, definitely

And then I’m standing in my underwear, thinking about how much I’ve always secretly wanted to do this, how I always thought it would feel so nice, so liberating—

And I drag the clippers across my head in a slightly jagged motion.

Once.

Twice.

Over and over and over and I’m laughing as my hair falls to the floor, a sea of too-long brown waves lapping at my feet and I’ve never felt so light, so silly silly happy

I drop the still-buzzing clippers in the sink and step back, admiring my work in the mirror as I touch my newly shorn head. I have the same haircut as Warner now. The same sharp half inch of hair, except my hair is dark where his is light and I look so much older suddenly. Harsher. Serious. I have cheekbones. A jawline. I look angry and a little scary. My eyes are bright, huge in my face, the center of attention, wide and sharp and piercing and I love it.

I love it.

I’m still giggling as I teeter down the hall, wandering Anderson’s rooms in my underwear, feeling freer than I have in years. I flop down onto the big leather chair and finish the rest of the glass in two swift gulps.

Years, centuries, lifetimes pass and dimly, I hear the sound of banging.

I ignore it.

I’m sideways on the chair now, my legs flung over the arm, leaning back to watch the chandelier spin—

Was it spinning before?

—and too soon my reverie is interrupted, too soon I hear a rush of voices I vaguely recognize and I don’t move, merely squint, turning only my head toward the sounds.

“Oh shit, J—”

Kenji charges into the room and freezes in place at the sight of me. I suddenly, faintly remember that I’m in my underwear, and that another version of myself would prefer not to have Kenji see me like this—but it’s not enough to motivate me to move. Kenji, however, seems very concerned.

“Oh shit shit shit—”

It’s only then that I notice he’s not alone.

Kenji and Warner are standing in front of me, the two of them staring at me like they’re horrified, like I’ve done something wrong, and it makes me angry.

“What?” I say, annoyed. “Go away.”

“Juliette—love—what did you do—”

And then Warner is kneeling beside me. I try to look at him but it’s suddenly hard to focus, hard to see straight at all. My vision blurs and I have to blink several times to get his face to stop moving but then I’m looking at him, really looking at him, and something inside of me is trying to remember that we are angry with Warner, that we don’t like him anymore and we do not want to see him or speak to him but then he touches my face—

and I sigh

I rest my cheek against his palm and remember something beautiful, something kind, and a rush of feeling floods through me

“Hi,” I say.

And he looks so sad so sad and he’s about to respond but Kenji says, “Bro, I think she drank, like, I don’t know, a whole glass of this stuff. Maybe half a pint? And at her weight?” He swears under his breath. “That much whisky would destroy me.”

Warner closes his eyes. I’m fascinated by the way his Adam’s apple moves up and down his throat and I reach out, trail my fingers down his neck.

“Sweetheart,” he whispers, his eyes still closed. “Why—”

“Do you know how much I love you?” I say. “I love—loved you so much. So much.”

When he opens his eyes again, they’re bright. Shining. He says nothing.

“Kishimoto,” he says quietly. “Please turn on the shower.”

“On it.”

And Kenji’s gone.

Warner still says nothing to me.

I touch his lips. Lean forward. “You have such a nice mouth,” I whisper.

He tries to smile. It looks sad.

“Do you like my hair?” I say.

He nods.

“Really?”

“You’re beautiful,” he says, but he can hardly get the words out. And his voice breaks when he says, “Why did you do this, love? Were you trying to hurt yourself?”

I try to answer but feel suddenly nauseous. My head spins. I close my eyes to steady the feeling but it won’t abate.

“Shower’s ready,” I hear Kenji shout. And then, suddenly, his voice is closer. “You got this, bro? Or do you want me to take it from here?”

“No.” A pause. “No, you can go. I’ll make sure she’s safe. Please tell the others I’m not feeling well tonight. Send my apologies.”

“You got it. Anything else?”

“Coffee. Several bottles of water. Two aspirin.”

“Consider it done.”

“Thank you.”

“Anytime, man.”

And then I’m moving, everything is moving, everything is sideways and I open my eyes and quickly close them as the world blurs before me. Warner is carrying me in his arms and I bury my face in the crook of his neck. He smells so familiar.

Safe.

I want to speak but I feel slow. Like it takes forever to tell my lips to move, like it’s slow motion when they do, like the words rush together as I say them, over and over again

“I miss you already,” I mumble against his skin. “I miss this, miss you, miss you” and then he puts me down, steadies me on my feet, and helps me walk into the standing shower.

I nearly scream when the water hits my body.

My eyes fly open, my mind half sobered in an instant, as the cold water rushes over me. I blink fast, breathing hard as I lean against the shower wall, staring wildly at Warner through the warped glass. Water snakes down my skin, collects in my eyelashes, my open mouth. My shoulders slow their tremble as my body acclimates to the temperature and minutes pass, the two of us staring at each other and saying nothing. My mind steadies but doesn’t clear, a fog still hanging over me even as I reach forward to turn the dial, heating the water by many degrees.

I can still see his face, beautiful even blurred by the glass between us, when he says, “Are you okay? Do you feel any better?”

I step forward, studying him silently, and say nothing as I unhook my bra and let it drop to the floor. There’s no response from him save the slight widening of his eyes, the slight movement in his chest and I slip out of my underwear, kicking it off behind me and he blinks several times and steps backward, looks away, looks back again.

I push open the shower door.

“Come inside,” I say.

But now he won’t look at me.

“Aaron—”

“You’re not feeling well,” he says.

“I feel fine.”

“Sweetheart, please, you just drank your weight in whisky—”

“I just want to touch you,” I say. “Come here.”

He finally turns to face me, his eyes moving slowly up my body and I see it, I see it happen when something inside of him seems to break. He looks pained and vulnerable and he swallows hard as he steps toward me, steam filling the room now, hot drops of water breaking on my bare hips and his lips part as he looks at me, as he reaches forward, and I think he might actually come inside when

instead

he closes the door between us and says

“I’ll be waiting for you in the living room, love.”