“Stop saying that,” he says. “You wanted this.”
I want to go home.
I SHOVE him back, yanking my arm out of his grip as I push up to a seated position, and my entire world comes crashing down around us. “I can’t—don’t—I need?—”
“Ivy,” he says, bewildered. He reaches out to touch me, but I throw up my hands, scrambling off the bed and away from him.
“Don’t,” I snap. I never snap. It feels horrible coming out, like some ugly, dark creature lashing out from inside me, and I want to scold it, tame it,killit. I want to take back the violent word that just came out of me, but I can’t because Wes’s eyes are way too wide, and he’s raising his hands up in front of him. He’s staring at me like he doesn’t recognize me, and I know I can’t take it back. I want to, though. I want to take it back because he’ssafe.He’s supposed to besafe.“I’m sorry—I?—”
I don’t feel right. I feel wrong. Really wrong.
The memory’s dislodged itself. It’s done souring my gut and fisting my heart and now it’sknock, knock, knockingat the door to my mind, and I can’t stop it. I’m terrified, because once itmuscles its way inside and detonates like a bomb all over my brain, I know the next stop is my mouth, where it will eject like bile over anyone and everyone around me. Normal words won’t come out when I want them to, sure, but these will. I know they will, and I worry I will contaminate everyone with this memory.
I will contaminateWes.
I will contaminate the girl Iamwith Wes. Someone almost normal.
But most of all…most of all, I worry I’ll contaminateus.I’ll ruin this perfect, delicate thing between us, if I haven’t already.
“Ivy, what’s going on?” he asks quietly. “Did I do something? Talk to me. Please.”
I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t find the words. I can’t breathe.
I try to inhale, desperate for oxygen, but my airways seal up, and I’m incapable of drawing in a full breath. I squeeze my eyes shut tight and try to concentrate on the numbers, conscious of the fact that I’m full-on hyperventilating now, but my body’s all wrong, and I don’t want to be here anymore.
There’s a whooshing in my ears as panic explodes in my chest, the aftershock sweeping through my limbs, leaving them shaky and weak. My lungs forget how to work, the air around me thin and sharp, and my breathing becomes ragged. Shallow. Painful.
“It’s going to be okay,” says Wes, his voice urgent beside me. My vision starts to spin. My chest cinches tighter, tighter,tighter.“Inhale for four, hold it for four, release for four. Ivy, inhale for four and hold it. Come on. You can do this, baby.”
The soothing tenor of his voice winds around me, and somehow, I listen. Somehow, I do what he says, and the tension inside me begins to uncoil, leaving room for me to breath.
“Good, keep doing that. Just keep doing that. Over and over.”
Inhale for four. Hold for four. Exhale for four.
“You’re doing so good.”
Finally, I regain control. My heart rate slows, and the world stands still. The pressure unwinds, and my lungs inflate. When I look down at my hands, I don’t recognize them. Nails bitten to the quick. Freckle on the left thumb. Fingers so pale they belong on a corpse.
Wes keeps his distance but crouches a foot away, concern etched so deep into the lines of his face I fear it’ll leave permanent creases. I see the gears turning behind his eyes. I see him try to make sense of what just occurred. He’s collecting broken shards, one by one, and trying to piece me back together, but they’re sharp, and it’s not so easy. I don’t blame him for attempting to solve me like a riddle, but he won’t make it there without a couple more clues, and I can’t give them to him. I just can’t. “What just happened?” he murmurs. “Talk to me, Ivy.”
What just happened?
I don’t have words. Not ones I’m capable of sharing. I can’t taint him.
“I have to go,” I mutter, scanning the room for my things. I don’t even recognize my own voice. It’s monotone. Lifeless. It belongs to a stranger. Shame courses through me, and I don’t look at him. Can’t look at him.
I want to go home.
“Maybe you should stay here for a little while.”
I shake my head, already tugging on my coat. “I can’t.”
I can’t stand to be here anymore, taking up too much real estate in his mind as it reruns the last five minutes. I don’t want to occupy his thoughts, and I have a sudden violent urge to carve myself out somehow. The violence doesn’t last long. Despair takes its place as the memory hovers just beneath the surface of my mind, too close, too close, too clo?—
I want to go home.
I don’t want to occupy my own head right now, either.
