I pick up a saturated cotton pad, bringing it to my eyes to melt what I haven’t cried off of my mascara.

“You already checked.”

The only times I’ve left my room since we returned to Boston late this afternoon was to check the door after I heard Fitz go upstairs a little after ten. Before I heard the padding of his feet on the stairs, he left another gentle knock. There had been many over the few hours we had been home, along with several questions asked through the shut door.

Was I okay.

Did I feel like eating.

I just feel… nothing beyond shame and stupidity.

I’m ashamed that I thought I could rewrite the narrative by taking control of it. Because what does exposing my parents, and bringing an end to the reign of the Montgomerys in America’s government, get me? I’ll probably still be trying to convince myself I don’t need to check the door again. It will just be a different door, a different lock.

I eye the shower where Fitz’s shampoo sits on the shelf.

What does any of this get Fitz?

It’s only now I selfishly realize the impact it might have on him.

I press my hands into the marble, leaning all my weight into them, hoping it might distract them enough. But that’s the thing—it’s not my hands that are the issue. It’s my head. And the feelings are so intense that I can’t think of anything else but making sure the door is locked.

“Screw it.” I flee from the bathroom, slipping the lip of the secondary lock so I can open the one on the handle of my bedroom door.

“I thought you went to bed.”

I jump, pressing my hand to my chest.

Fitz stands from where he sits on the floor between the couch and coffee table. “Did I wake you?”

I take a calming breath. “No, I… I just wanted some water.” I decide to lie, walking into the kitchen and filling a glass that I down in one swallow.

For a second, I contemplate refilling it and bringing it to my room but decide I might need a reason to leave it again in an hour. Or another three minutes.

Abandoning the glass in the sink, I open the cabinet, taking a handful of yellow Starburst, even though I’ll have to brush my teeth again.

I walk back out to the living room. “Shouldn’t you be in bed? Don’t you have an early workout?”

“Can’t sleep,” Fitz mumbles.

Now, I don’t feel like just an idiot. I feel like a guilty idiot.

I sigh. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

I hold out my arms and let them fall to my side. “I’m probably the thing that’s keeping you up.”