Page 125 of His Turn

She chooses to breathe.

“The rules,” I say, wrapping my arms around her tight—she begins to cry as I hold her—“explicitly state that you’re not allowed to walk out until I’ve taken care of you.” The last few words come out as a whisper.

“You walked out on me,” she says through her sobbing.

“I know,” I say. “I’m so fucking sorry.” I broke her. I made her trust me that night. I made her feel good. And then I fucked with her head and walked out. “You need to stop dancing, Nadia.”

“I don’t want to,” she says. I feel the warmth of her breath through the fabric of my shirt. “I want to dance until I die.”

“It’s… it’s called the drop, remember? We explained this to you.” I dropped her. I took her into subspace that night and then I left her suspended inside it until she dropped out on her own. “I fucked up.”

She just shakes her head and tries to wriggle free.

But I’m not going to let go. Because she needs me to make things right. “Be still now, OK?”

“I can’t,” she says, her voice breaking. “I need to dance.”

“No, Nadia. You need to be taken care of, that’s all.”

“I don’t want your pity. I don’t want you at all, Elias Bricman. I hate you.”

I nod my head as I hold her close. “I deserve that hate.”

“I don’t want to talk to you and I don’t want to see you.”

“Well, you’re in luck,” I say. “Because I’m going to do the talking and we’re in the dark right now, so you don’t have to see me.”

She starts to cry.

I pet her hair and say, “It’s OK. You can cry. All this is normal. Not normal,” I say, trying to figure out a way to explain it. “It’s expected. All these feelings. This manic desire to do something. I took you to a special place Friday night.”

“You took me to hell,” she says, sniffing back her sobs.

“I took to you heaven, Nadia. And then I left you in hell. I’m sorry. I didn’t know about Logan—”

“You had that police report! You shoved it in my face!”

“I didn’t know the whole story, Nadia. I swear.”

“You told me that night when we went out to Jordan’s party—”

“Jordan’s party?”

“—that I like little boys.” She’s crying so hard now, I can barely understand her.

“I didn’t mean it like that, Nadia. I swear. I didn’t know about Scott.”

That name is the last straw for Nadia Wolfe. She collapses. Like one of those toys held together by taut string. The ones that fall to pieces when you press on the button underneath them and release the tension. A push puppet. She’s a push puppet and I hate myself for it.

I pick her up off the floor, hold her in my arms, cradling her like a baby, and carry her out to the living room.

We sit on the couch. Her still in my lap. I hold her close, her head tucked in under my chin, and play with her hair.

I don’t say anything for a long time.

I just hold her.