Page 33 of Palingenesis

There’s a somber smile on his face when he returns and offers me the glass.

He looks like a completely different person.

“Tell me,” he mouths when he’s sure I’m looking.

I swallow a long pull of cool liquid, working my throat in preparation to use my voice for the first time in gods know how long.

Though what comes out of my mouth stumps me just as much as him.

“The statue.” Short and thick, it rolls off my vocals with a vibration that tickles and I hope makes enough sense. “From town.”

His gaze flicks to my hands, still occupied by holding the glass, then narrows on my face.

“Use your hands,” he signs back, taking the glass from my grip and setting it on his side table. “Your voice sounds pfft.” His lips flutter with the last bit, something reminiscent of using ASL on a regular basis that I was in no way expecting to ever see from him.

It makes my chest pinch and I swallow hard.

“It was weird and long,” I tell him, “I recall pieces but the statue from town was in it, like a lot.”

“It was creepy,” he agrees.

My brows dip. “You saw it, too?”

His lips purse again. “Yes, silly, we were both there when we picked up the couch two weeks ago.”

The color drains from my face and makes me dizzy.

“Couch?”

Henry nods, one brow raised. “That’s when we met Avery.” He finger spells the name and my stomach churns. No… no way I made it all up. “Shannon, are you okay?”

The way he taps an S shape to his chest, a clear name sign for me, has everything in my stomach ready to revolt.

I jump up from the bed, snatching a pair of briefs from the floor as I go. Slamming the door behind me, I lock myself in the bathroom and lean heavily into the vanity.

Something is so very wrong here.

My lungs pump with my breath, too shallow and too quick.

“Mind games. It’s all fucked.”

Sliding to the floor, I clutch at my chest and squeeze my eyes closed.

This isn’t real. None of it is.

Though, at this point, I’m losing faith in my ability to tell the difference between delusion and reality. The fantasies seem like I’m awake, and each time I’m lucid is like a nightmare that has my heart pounding harder in my chest.

How the fuck do I tell the difference?

Tipping up my glasses and digging the heels of my palms into my eye sockets, I press until I see colors. Stars. Anything other than the bathroom floor and this version of reality.

If I could just… catch my breath. Calm my pulse.

Then I could think. Focus on anything that feels off. Maybe ask—

Henry won’t tell me the truth. But maybe… Avery can.

He’d tell me if he recalls standing outside his bakery during the cake decorating thing he was hosting with his husband.