“Because we were friends,” Shae says, a feather drawn across a bruise. “Because sometimes the person who knows your worst story is the one you want to hear when the wind turns.”
“Then why didn’t you come forward after she died?”
“To say what?” Shae asks. “That we drank cabernet and she complained about her husband? That my friend’s last living hours smelled like salt and wine, like every coastal Friday sincethe dawn of time? You want to host grief the way you host interviews—contained, monetizable. But grief is rude. It doesn’t show up on cue.”
Harper’s breathing speeds—shallow, clipped. Flustered. Like she’s teetering on a panic attack. The sound twinges something under my ribs.
Shae hears it, too. Of course she does.
“Hey,” Shae says, switching registers to velvety control. “Eyes on me. Feet on the floor. Name five things you can see.”
Harper whimpers. “The—uh—the waveform. The clock. Your… your hands. The sticker on the mic.”
“That’s four. One more.”
“My notebook.”
“Good girl,” Shae says, and I can’t decide if the phrase chills me because it patronizes or because it soothes. “Now four things you can feel.”
“My chair,” Harper gasps. “The… headphones. My sweater. The air.”
“Three things you can hear,” Shae says, steady as a metronome. Just like a therapist.
“Your voice. The air vent. My heart.”
“Two things you can smell.”
“Coffee,” Harper whispers. “And… roses?” She sniffs. “Your perfume.”
“One thing you can taste.”
“Panic,” Harper says, almost laughing. “And lip balm.”
“Good,” Shae murmurs. “Now let the body be boring. It loves boring.”
Harper’s inhales begin to level. Shae gives people breath like a gift she might take back.
“Let’s pause,” Shae says after a moment. “You’re carrying too much electricity. Let me draw a bath for you.”
“I—I don’t know?—”
“Water soothes the nerves,” Shae says. “Run it.”
Harper hesitates. Then I hear the soft pad of her steps, the faucet hiss. The mic picks up everything—the studio door muffles, the bathroom turns cavernous, water fills porcelain. Quiet, except for bathwater rushing and Harper’s ragged breaths.
A few minutes later, Shae returns. “Here—I made your favorite tea to help you relax?—”
“I can’t drink tea?—”
“Ssh. It’s the one from the canister on the counter—the stuff you special-order.”
“Oh. Thank you,” Harper murmurs.
Shae lingers, voice hovering like steam.
“Do you remember sophomore year?” she asks. “The pranks. The mean girls. They were awful. They were ecstatic. You would’ve loved them.”
Harper sniffs a laugh. “We didn’t go to the same?—”
