The Fear Dissertation // A Jonathan Crane Dark Romance

47

Harleen and I eat our food and drink mocktails on the couch, music playing softly from the television. We talk and laugh all evening, until it's late at night and we both begin to yawn. My eyes get heavier and heavier, my head beginning to ache from lack of sleep.

"You know, you can go to his house for the night," Harleen says.

"No way," I frown. "This is our place."

She hesitates. "...It might not be for much longer."

"What, are you replacing me as a roommate or something?"

"No way. No, I'm just getting evicted."

"What?" I'm suddenly more awake. "Why? Since when?"

"Since the gas leak, when the superintendent found out I'm illegally subletting." She rolls her eyes.

Guilt forms in my stomach. "Harleen... This is all my fault. I'm so sorry."

"Don't be." She pats my arm. "They're just stupid greedy property owners. We'll find someplace else. But know you don't have to stay with me if you don't want to. Okay? You can keep your stuff here or there, sleep here or there — whatever you want to do."

"And move my creepy fear baby's nursery so far away uptown from Aunt Harleen? I don't think so."

Harleen's laughter echoes through the room. But then her eyes begin to water, just a little. She bites down on her lip and throws her arms around me. "I love you, Sienna."

I hug her back, my own eyes stinging. "I love you too."

We laugh again as we part. "We're so ridiculous," Harleen sniffs. "Not like we can even blame it on the tequila."

"Hormones?" I suggest, wiping my eyes on my sleeve.

"Yes," Harleen says. "Hormones. I'm gonna get to bed." She takes our plates and glasses through to the kitchen. "Gotta say, I missed your weird nighttime dish washing while you were gone."

"I'm sure you'll get it again tonight," I call back, suddenly remembering Jonathan's promise, the Scarecrow's presence.

"You still on for Taco Tuesday tomorrow?" Harleen asks.

"Of course."

"Doctor Creepy won't be mad?"

"If he gets mad over that, he's a scrub," I roll my eyes.

"Atta girl. Night, babe."

"Goodnight, Harleen."

I stay up just a little longer, scrolling through my phone on the couch. By this point, my body is practically screaming at me to get some rest, and so I finally relent.

But it's strange. And it causes me further pangs of guilt, but I can't deny it — my shower doesn't feel the same. The shampoo I once loved leaves me a little disappointed, because it doesn't smell of verbena and mint and vetiver. My bed's not as warm. It feels empty and lifeless, and so very cold with nobody beside me.

Get a grip, I tell myself. I'm not about to abandon Harleen. But already, I'm trying to form a schedule in my mind, debating whether weekends and a weeknight is too much time to spend at Jonathan's, and how willing Harleen would be to sleepover with earplugs.

I'm weighing up the merits of a mid-week sleepover to break up the week, versus a Thursday or Monday to extend the weekend, when my fatigue catches up to me and I drift off into dreamland.

***

It's not a nightmare, exactly. At least, not if my fear response is anything to measure by, though that means little now. Nightmares can't affect me anymore. Or at least, they shouldn't.