It’s a stupid thing to say. Potatoes. He’s in the middle of—whateverthisis—and I’m talking about potatoes. But his breath hitches in a different way, and I think—I hope—it’s the ghost of a laugh.
“Breathe with me, okay? I’m not good at a lot of things, but I’m excellent at breathing. Been doing it my whole life.” Another almost-laugh, or maybe a sob. I can’t tell. “In through your nose. Slow.”
I breathe in, loud enough for him to hear. After a moment, he follows. It’s ragged and uneven, but he follows.
“Good. Now out. Slow as you can.”
We do this for what feels like a long time. Standing side by side in his kitchen, breathing together, while the feta sauce sits half-finished and the grill heats up outside. His shoulder is shaking against mine, and at some point, my hand finds his on the counter. I don’t lace our fingers together or squeeze. I rest mine on top of his, barely there, giving him something to feel that isn’t the edge of the counter cutting into his palm.
I’ve never done this for someone. I’ve been the one on the floor. I’ve been the one white-knuckling my way through a conversation, praying nobody notices, then going home and crying so hard my ribs ache. I’ve been the one explaining—again—that no, I’m not being dramatic, and no, I can’t snap out of it, and no, it’s not because I forgot to take a walk this morning or drink enough water or whatever reductive bullshit people offerwhen they don’t understand that your own brain is waging a war against you every month.
Nobody except Neve has ever just stood next to me and breathed.
And the fact I’m doing it for him—that I instinctively knew this is what he needed—is not something I’m ready to look at directly. Like staring into the sun. I know it’s there. I can feel the warmth of it. But if I look at it, I’ll have to name it, and I’m not sure I have the courage for that yet.
When his breathing finally evens out, he doesn’t move away. He turns his hand over, palm facing up, and I settle my fingers into his.
“Sorry,” he croaks. His voice is wrecked.
“Don’t.” It comes out firmer than I intend, so I soften it. “You don’t get to apologize for this.”
Something flickers across his face. Surprise, maybe. Like he expects me to look at him differently now. Like this moment was supposed to be the one where I realized he was too much. Too broken. Too complicated.
I know that look. I’ve worn it.
After every relationship that crumbled under the weight of my bad weeks. After every person who said they were fine with it, until they had to live through the lows with me. After every time I swallowed the words,this is just how my brain works, because I’d learned explaining it didn’t make people stay or understand. Not even my parents.
He’s waiting for me to leave. Or worse—to stay but treat him like he’s fragile.
I refuse to do either.
“I had a session with my therapist today,” he says after a moment. “It was… a lot. We talked about changing up my meds, and that always stresses me out a little because this is so new tome. And then you mentioned the dinner thing, and I don’t know, it—” He blows out a long breath. “Everything hit at once.”
“Do you need to take any of those medications now?” It feels like an important detail, and not something he should delay.
“Uh, no.” He pauses, closing his eyes like he’s checking in with himself to make sure. “I think I’m good. I took my SSRI this morning, and I don’t feel like I need a benzo at the moment.”
I nod, even though he’s not looking at me. “Okay.”
“Okay?” He turns his head, opening his eyes. They’re red-rimmed and glassy. He looks so unlike the man who was laughing with his parents that my heart squeezes painfully.
“Yeah, okay. You had a bad moment. You’re allowed to have bad moments.” I shrug like it’s simple, because to me, it is. I’ve had a thousand bad moments. I’ll have a thousand more. The difference isn’t whether they happen—it’s whether someone’s still standing next to you when they’re over. “And, I mean, I get it. You do everything withmeraki. Like you leave a piece of yourself in everything you do. You pour your whole soul into it, regardless of how big or small a task may be. It’s wonderful, but I’m sure it can also be exhausting. Now, do you want to finish the sauce, or do you want me to attempt it and potentially ruin everything?”
The laugh that comes out of him is watery but real. “You’dabsolutelyruin it.”
“Rude. But fair.” I bump his shoulder with mine. “I’ll do the potatoes. Even I can’t mess up potatoes.”
“You say that with concerning confidence.”
“Shut up and stir your sauce, Peter.”
He picks up the spoon. His hand isn’t entirely steady, but he picks it up, nonetheless. And when he glances at me—really looks at me, with those ridiculous brown eyes that are still a little glassy—there’s an emotion there that wasn’t before. Notgratitude, exactly. Something quieter. Something that says, “You saw me, and you didn’t run.”
I turn toward the potatoes so he can’t see my face, because I’m pretty sure it’s saying something back.
CHAPTER 34
TELL THAT ASS-WIPE IT’S NOT LOAD-BEARING.
