My breath catches.
My heart beats harder.
“Rosabelle?” he says.
I look up at him. He’s so close. His face is so close I could keep counting the scatter of freckles across the bridge of his nose.
I left off at seven.
I’m trying to remember his question.
“Thank you,” I say faintly. “That’s fine.”
He searches me a second longer. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll make the pieces smaller.”
The lights seem to flare around me, sounds surginginto indistinct noise. The ring of a bell. The slam of a door. Clara would love these plastic menus, their colorful colors. Booming laughter. A child screams and James hardens in his seat. He takes a breath, stretches his neck. I watch as a cryptic feeling moves across his face, his eyes closing. The scrape of chairs. Metal pans crashing. Plates hitting tables. James exhales; slowly reanimating, his leg grazing mine as he adjusts. I overheat. Ice water is poured into glasses. Clara would love the black and white checkerboard tiles underfoot. The child screams again and James sits back. He takes a deep breath, his eyes unfocusing. Clara would love the neon sign in the window. I haven’t been inside of a restaurant in over a decade. My memories of experiences prior to that are rare and scattered, snatches of color and texture. The ring of a bell. The slam of a door. James sighs, his hands stilling. The sizzle of oil. The ring of a bell. The ring of a bell. The ring of a bell. The slam of a door. The ring of a bell. The slam of a door.
I reach, in my mind, for a weapon.
“Hey,” says James. “You okay?”
I turn to face him and I’m delivered a shock to the chest. Being with him is like being brought violently back to life, over and over. I anchor myself here, in his eyes, my heart beating harder and harder until something inside of me finally loosens, my lungs expanding behind my ribs. The relief I feel around him is intoxicating. I’m soon soft in the head, loose in my bones, distracted by the fringe of his dark eyelashes as he studies me.
I need to get away from him. I need—
I need help.
I want to climb into his lap. I want to push up his shirt, drag my hands down his bare chest, press my face to his heated body. I want to breathe him in. I want to lick the salt off his skin.
I want to scream.
I’ve never had thoughts like this in my entire life. I don’t know how I’m even conjuring these fantasies.
“Rosabelle.”
I’m staring at the column of his neck. The slope of his shoulders. His arms—
I drag my gaze upward.
James is staring at me again, but his eyes are darker. I watch his chest lift, his voice tight when he says, “Why are you looking at me like that? What are you thinking right now?”
“Nothing.” I turn away in a panic, my face hot, and I look up to find everyone staring at me.
“This is weird,” Winston says, shoveling waffle in his mouth. He gestures between me and James with his fork, still chewing. “This is so weird.”
“It’s not weird,” says Nazeera.
“It’s super weird,” says Adam, who sits back in his chair and sighs.
“She was having trouble with her silverware,” says Nazeera. “That’s not weird. He’s being helpful.”
Adam scowls. “I’m not talking about that.”
“I am,” says Winston, shoveling more waffle in his mouth. Then, to James: “Didn’t she just shoot you? And nowyou’re sitting there cutting her dinner into small pieces?”
James doesn’t lift his head when he flips him off.
“Look, I get that she’s hungry,” says Adam, “but are we really supposed to just sit here and eat our food and not discuss the situation?”
