“What happened to your hand?” he demands, reaching forit.
But I’m reaching for his face, feeling for his temperature.
“I’m fine,” he says. “I’m feeling better. Show me your hand.”
I’m not satisfied, reaching to feel his cheeks and neck. He’s grabbing at my hand, trying to see it. I yank back and knock the glass of orange juice. It smashes against the floor like a firework.
I scream and jump backwards, because the shards of glass that have slingshotted across the kitchen floor are not from a juice glass, they’re the plate glass front window of a café, and I’m on my back on a blue tiled floor, there’s a truck wheel spinning idly a few feet above my head, and people are screaming. Vin’s full weight is laid out over the top of me and he’s not moving. My vision is in massive, lengthy blinks, and I don’t think I’ll ever breathe again. I look to my side and there’s Raffi, facing away from me on the blue tile, his forearm cracked into a horrific angle. There’s a man unconscious beyond him; I can see bone where his cheek is supposed to be.
I’m back in my kitchen now, ripping away from Vin’s strong hands on my shoulders and standing over the kitchen sink. I’m sobbing, but there are no tears. I’m dizzy and nauseated. Gripping the cabinet, I sink down to the floor slowly, my fingers bearing all my weight because my legs simply can’t.
I take long, deep breaths because everyone is always talking about taking deep breaths when you’re panicking, but I don’t even feel like they make it into my lungs. It’s like trying to breathe through packed cotton.
Time passes and when I finally open my eyes, I see that Vin has taken up a mirrored position, seated on the floor, against the counter opposite me. He’s watching me.
The orange juice is a sharp, treacherous ocean between us.
“Roz…” Vin pulls up his knees and rests his arms there, his head hanging down.
“Roz, this is so fucked-up.”
It hurts, but he’s not wrong. “I’m assuming other people can drop glasses without having a meltdown.”
“No.” He’s shaking his head. “Not just you. That was me…I mean…This…I think…this is like…PTSD from the accident.”
I’m taken aback.
Vin grew up pretty old-school. Work hard, get married, have kids, bury your parents, retire, die. No muss, no fuss. When he was a teenager and his mother found a nudie mag in the back of his closet, she rolled it up and walloped him with it. He’s not exactly a psychology-terms sort of guy.
“I—” I shrug. “I guess I don’t know.”
“Because I don’t think this”—he gestures to us on the floor—“is normal. For spilled juice and a low-grade fever and a burn that just needs some ointment.”
“Yeah.” I have to agree. There’s an elastic band of pain around my head, tightening and loosening in rhythm.
We’re silent for a long, long time. I’m about to stand up and insist that he go to bed, but then…
“Are you taking some sort of class?”
I freeze.
Art classes aren’t exactly illegal or illicit, but I still feel like he’s caught me doing something bad.
“I saw the art stuff in your backpack. When I got the Advil.”
“Right. Yeah. Friday nights.” I glance at him, and he’s nodding.
“I get it. Anything to get out of the house.” He stands up and I think I’m about to watch him leave. But he walks to the hall closet and gets the mop. “To get away from—”
He gestures to the broken glass, but then his hand just keeps on going, gesturing to our house as a whole. To—oh, God—our life together, I assume.
Anything to get away,he said.I get it,he said.
Anything.
The panic chemicals have started to freeze over. They’re not racing and hot anymore, they’re sluggish and pulsing with ache. I stand up on cold feet and try to take the mop from him.
“You should sleep.”
