“God. Imagine having feelings and people seeing them,” he said with mock horror.
I glanced up when I sensed someone waiting nearby. An older woman dressed in a brightly colored caftan hovered cautiously, probably needing access to the eggs I had blocked. I sent her a tight-lipped, apologetic smile and shuffled out of the way to collect myself.
He was right. I was stronger than this. I was fierce. I had a purpose.
I struggled to remember it at this moment.
We ended the call, and though I could tell Dad felt better, I felt worse. It wasn’t a great plan. It was a CliffsNotes plan. I found a place to live. Now I just had to finish the article.
After that? I couldn’t think about it yet.
I returned to the dairy section when it was free of people again.Just choose the cream you want for coffee. The next choice. I’d been making choices my whole life. I could figure out what size cream to get.
As my hand reached for the fridge handle, it didn’t look quite right. It didn’t look like mine. I froze in place, studying this stranger’s hand. The knuckles were white as they gripped the handle, fingers trembling. The lights around me faded, and my eyes seemed to vibrate. It started with a ringing in my ears, a strange, disconnected feeling from my body as a cold stung the back of my neck. A sudden and very intense feeling of dread crept over me. The first telltale signs that something wrong was barreling toward me.
I looked around to see if maybe something had caused it.
The small grocer appeared normal.
My insides were far from it.
An employee came out from a side door leading to the back of the store with a blast of cold air that must have been from the refrigerator section. His jeans and flannel were covered in a long leather apron, reaching almost to his well-worn work boots. His unruly beard covered most of his face, and worn and clouded protective glasses covered his eyes.
“Excuse me?” I stepped in front of him.
He stopped, shoulders tensed as if I’d pulled my knife on him. He stood a good five inches or so taller than me with a broad frame and smelled lightly of a campfire and hand soap.
“Is there a restroom here?” I asked with a surprising wobble tomy voice. My ears felt like they needed to pop, and the burning on the back of my neck grew worse.
Thisdread, something was wrong.
He shook his head. “I don’t?—”
“I know. I saw the sign that there isn’t a public restroom, but this is an emergency. I’m having a-a—I just need the restroom.”
He grunted; his head moved subtly, giving the impression that I was being scrutinized.
I suddenly felt silly for stopping him at all. I was fine. I was just having a moment. It would pass.
“Maybe I’m okay. I don’t know what I’m doing.” I pressed my cold fingertips to my cheeks and was shocked to find they were wet. “How humiliating. My cream crisis sent me into a full-on spiral. There is a chance that I’m in a state of delayed shock.” My words came out choppy and tight as I struggled to take a full breath. “This happens sometimes.”
That had to be what this was. The rushing panic and complete upending of my life was just now hitting me. I didn’t have a plan. I couldn’t catch my breath. Was I dying? The blood rushing through my ears blocked out all other sounds, emphasizing just how hard my heart was pounding. I pressed a hand to my chest to make sure I was breathing. To make sure there wasn’t an elephant sitting on it.
“Cream crisis?” he asked with obvious and understandable confusion.
“I’m sorry. This was totally—I’m not normally—” I stumbled backward and into the corner of a shelf, wincing when it stabbedinto my side.
You’re dying. You’re dying.
His arms shot out to balance me before he stopped just short of grabbing me. His palms were raised, and his eyebrows shot up behind the grimy glasses, as though waiting to see if I would topple over. I wished I could see him better, then I’d be able to read his features. I wasn’t great at reading people, but when I couldn’t see their eyes, it felt that much harder. He could have been glaring at me or staring disinterestedly over my shoulder. He could be rolling them like Kevin did when I had an opinion that varied from his own.
But sometimes, I wondered if it wasn’t my lack of reading social cues that helped me get to the meat of a good story. I made people uncomfortable, and uncomfortable people talked. So, this curse was also a blessing.
One thing was sure—this man was uncomfortable.
My stomach gurgled.
“I-I think I’m-I don’t know.” I flushed and shook my head. I pulled at the collar of my jacket to let more air in. It did not help.
