My heart is loud.
I list through sights, sounds, and feelings until the wave of anxiety pulls away enough for my heart to stop beating in my skull.
I'm okay.
But I'm not. Not really.
Because Bowen is standing on the porch with the pressure washer, and I can see the top third of the door. It's not green anymore.
My toes curl, digging into the earth under me. Like they know exactly what's coming and trying to keep me in place.
It lasts until I have to suck in a breath or risk passing out from lack of oxygen. It breaks the moment of stillness, and then I'm moving. The space between me and the cabin seems to narrow and stretch. The trees and sky and everything tunnels out until it's just Bowen at the end, washing away a memory.
“Come on, Momma Meyer! It's perfect. Like Shrek Swamp green. Who doesn't love Shrek? If you say you don't love Shrek, I'll have to consider who I'm allowing to raise my best friend. It will be a perfect pop of color for our swamp!”
“It looks like pea soup,” my mom laughed, pushing the cart down another aisle. Brett was hugging the paint to his chest, following behind. It was on the clearance shelf for a reason. It was putrid.
“Pea soup is beautiful,” he breathes wistfully, like he was talking about a Michelangelo painting and not something that resembled baby poop.
We were splattered in it three hours later. A heap of laughs in front of the freshly painted door.
“Bowen,” I croak from the bottom of the stairs.
He's cleared nearly half the color already on the top. He doesn't hear me over the noise, and he can't possibly hear the chant of his name in my mind.
“Stop,” I grind out louder.
Bowen glances at me over his shoulder. It must be in my rigid stance, or maybe he can see the ghosts of the past in my eyes because he frowns.
“What's wrong?” he asks, taking his finger off the trigger on the hose.
“The paint…” My nails bite into the skin on my palms. “You're taking off the paint with that.”
He looks at the door, then back to me.
“Yeah. That's the point.”
The point.
I flex my fingers out and wipe them on my pants before pushing my hair back off my forehead. I grip the strands, hating the tingling sensation in my scalp. My skin feels pulled taut all over my body. Like I'm a rubber band ready to snap.
“Brett and I… We… The paint.” It's nothing but a whisper by the end. But Bowen has turned towards me fully.
We look.
We look.
He clears his throat and sets down the nozzle. His boots are wet—so is the whole porch. Water is streaming down the steps in rivers coming for my feet. Bowen looks at me again and moves forward until the toes of his boots are on the very edge of the porch. One boot moves to hang off the edge but stops.
“You gotta breathe, Kit.”
“I'm trying,” I rasp.
“Try harder,” he says softly. Then he pulls a slow, steady breath through his nose.
Pushes it out through his mouth.
Again.
