“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”
My stomach flips. “What do you mean?”
When he doesn’t answer, I, too, lean against the couch. I look at him, and find his eyes trained on me. I can’t read them, but there is something about his gaze that makes me feel compelled to answer.
I exhale and look from him down to my boots. “My childhood cat. Sugar.” I look out in front of me before my gaze gravitates to his. “She lived to be seventeen in human years. Spent most of them very healthy. The day we put her to sleep, I told my parents I had a final exam. I could have gone there…to the vet where they were…” I shake my head. “But at the time, I didn’t think I could. Do it.” I seek his gaze and find it gentle. “Then my Dad died suddenly, and more than anything on earth, I wished I could say bye to him. It’s funny how that works, I think.”
When he doesn’t answer, just continues looking at me, I swallow. “Why’d you ask?”
He shakes his head. There’s something weird about his eyes. Like…he’s not blinking. He closes his eyes, his hand clenches, and I can see his shoulders rise, his chest expand, as he tries to inhale. The tendons in his neck stand out. He holds his breath a second, then his Adam’s apple bobs.
And it’s not rocket science. He doesn’t want to look at real estate. I think he just wants me to stay. Instead of alarm bells—the kind that should alert me to protect myself—all I hear is the fast thud of my heart behind my ribs.
Here I am again, I realize. Totally ensnared. But you could go, I tell myself.
I look at him. At his pale face. What do you owe him to be here? But it’s just futile.
I tell myself I won’t stay long. Just long enough to see what’s going on with him, and then I’ll go.
As for right now…I reach out and take his hands—and it feels good. So good I almost shut my eyes to relish it. He shifts our fingers so his hands are cupping mine, then bows his head again.
I stroke his fingers. “Tell me, why’d you ask?”
I watch his shoulders rise as he inhales.
I swallow. “I think I know.”
His eyes, so cold and hollow, shift to mine.
“You’re having PTSD issues. Is that it?”
He lets a slow breath out, then drops my hands and walks around the couch and sits. I watch him lean over his lap and hold his head, and then I can’t stand it anymore. I reach over the couch and lay my palm on his warm back. I feel his muscles twitch under my hand.
“It’s okay.” I rub in little circles like my mom would do when I was little. I’m rewarded with an easing of the tension in him. My hand trails up his spine and brushes the dark curls at the nape of his neck.
“Why’d you come?” The words sound breathy.
I stroke his neck, my hips digging into the couch’s back as I lean over him. “Because I had your jacket. And I wondered how you were,” I say quietly. It’s not untrue. “I have PTSD too, remember? From my accident. I know it’s probably nothing like yours, but I can empathize a little bit at least. I can’t stand to think of you feeling that way. Whether we’re friends or neighbors or whatever. Whether…anything with us.”
The fire crackles in the wake of my soft words, and Barrett leans over his knees, hands in his hair as if he’s tugging.
I see his ribcage expand without the rise and fall of his shoulders. I don’t know how exactly, but I can tell from the movement that he can’t get air into his locked-up lungs. He shifts back, lifting his arms off his knees, resting his head against the couch’s spine. Again the low, hollow inhalation. He lets out a little groan and starts to pant a little.
Shit. I come around in front of him and kneel there at his feet. I reach out slowly. Take his hands. I scoot a little closer on my knees, then gather his big hands against my chest, pressing them gently against the warm skin just above my breasts. I wrap one of his hands around my throat and inhale deeply. “Breathe with me, okay? Count to five slowly as you breathe in. Hold it for a second. And then count to eight as you exhale.”
EIGHT
Barrett
I can’t do it. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.
You can.
You will.
You don’t have a choice.
I inhale.