Page 62 of Dandelions and Smoke

“Definitely,” he responds instantly. “Come on, let’s enjoy all your hard work.”

For the first couple of hours, everything is great. I’m having fun and enjoying everyone’s company, but something inside me starts to shift. My skin starts to prickle like I’m stuck in an itchy sweater I can’t take off. Everything is fine, I tell myself over and over, hoping I can get back to enjoying myself the way I was five minutes ago.

The room is filled with friends having a good time. It’s loud in all the right ways, the kind of loud I planned for. I’m laughing at something someone said, half-turning toward the kitchen, watching people drift about with a laid-back ease.

This is good.

That thought brings a quiet sense of pride, like I’ve managed to do something truly great. Chief is in the middle of a game of beer pong with Ainsley, Blake, and Emma—something about a rematch from last summer. I was excited to watch, but with nothing left to plan and everyone having fun, the mental quiet that settles in feels uncomfortable instead of relaxing.

The doorbell rings, and someone shouts that they’ve got it. Grabbing the pizza, they set it on the counter instead of on the table with the plates. It shouldn’t bother me. It’s only pizza, but now there are boxes on the counter, someone saying my name, and the scrape of cardboard clawing, scratching at the back door of my senses, opening it enough to let it all flood in.

There’s a clink from a plate being set down wrong, someone opening a cabinet that doesn’t need to be opened, a laugh that feels a fraction too loud, the way people are pausing instead of moving, like they’re waiting for instructions I didn’t realize I was giving. My brain catches on to all of it, like my attention is a hand dragging across a table full of sharp little details. Details that I wish I could ignore right now, because what the hell?

My hands push through my hair near my temples, as though I can press the door to my thoughts shut. Pulling at my curls on the back of my head at the roots, I attempt to give my brain a sensory reset, but I know it’s too late for that. Are people standing too close together? Is it hot in here? Did I plan enough space? Should I announce that the food has arrived? Is Chief having a good time? Why is no one…?

No. Stop.

I try to re-engage in the conversation I’m having with Billy, Tom, Callie, and Della, but it slips, like trying to grip water. Now I’m watching instead of being here. My eyes are moving, undecided on where to land. Nothing in the room has changed, but it doesn’t feel held together the same way anymore. It’s as though I’m noticing the seams. Yet, nothing around me has actually become more chaotic. I’ve just become more aware of everything all at once.

Someone takes a slice of pizza, dripping sauce onto the floor. Another person laughs again, softer this time, and I track it automatically. I start running down that checklist in my mind of who they’re with, whether they’re comfortable, and if they saw the mess they left on the floor, or should I go clean it now before it leaves a stain. My hands suddenly feel useless, like I should be fixing something, adjusting something, correcting a detail I can’t quite name, despite the fact that all I want to do right now is enjoy the party. Something everyone else appears to be doing effortlessly.

My breath catches as panic claws its way back in. Everything is fine.

Everything is fine.

Except that it’s not.

No. No, no, no. I glance over to see someone using a cake plate for the pizza, and it’s as if my brain completely short-circuits. The small ones are for the cake. I literally set them out in two separate stacks, and now everything is mixed up. I spent forever making sure every little detail made sense.

“Please don’t use that one!” The words come out louder than I mean for them to and quicker than I can think. “That’s for the cake.”

The room goes quiet, and all eyes turn on me. Maria, the firefighter holding the plate, places it back onto the stack with the others, raises her hands, and slowly backs away. She looks over at Chief, her brows drawn together, pinching slightly at the center, then lifting unevenly like she’s trying to make the pieces fit and can’t. Her gaze is caught between trying to understand and quietly giving up on it. I catch every microexpression, wanting so badly to be swallowed up by the floor.

My pulse jumps as I try to rationalize what I’m feeling. If the cake plates disappear now, then where does the cake go? People are going to mix everything up, and it will be wrong. I mean, not like wrong-wrong, but that’s not how it’s supposed to be.

“Those plates are for the…” I try to explain again, but my mouth goes dry. Repeating myself out loud, I hear how ridiculous it sounds. They’re just stupid plates.

Chief strides over to me, abandoning his game.

Luckily, almost everyone has returned to their conversations and is no longer concerned with my rambling. Maybe they never were? They probably don’t care about the plates, but this isn’t about them.

This is about things getting messed up.

“Rory,” Chief whispers, concern etched in the fine lines that usually crinkle around his eyes when he smiles. He tilts his head down toward me like he’s trying to put out a fire, but doesn’t know where the smoke is coming from.

Meanwhile, my breathing comes in sharp, uneven bursts as I try to regain control. He’s reaching for my arm when I turn and make a beeline for the door.

I need air.

It’s all too much.

I can’t process, and my mind is too loud. It feels like all the tabs in my brain are trying to reload at once, but I’ve lost the Wi-Fi and been kicked back to dial-up. The cold air rushes into my lungs the second I step onto the wrap-around porch, sharp and unforgiving, but somehow exactly what I need. I pass a few friends gathered outside the door without stopping, my feet carrying me farther away from the noise until my hands find the railing of the back porch.

Gripping the cool wood, my fingers tighten around it as I focus on something steady. The pine trees sway above me, their branches whispering in the wind while the bass from the party pulses through the walls behind me. Two worlds colliding, just like the chaos I’m trying to quiet.

I inhale slowly, watching my breath disappear into the cold as I tell myself I don’t have to fix every moment, anticipate every problem, or keep everything from falling apart. My head drops forward, my eyes burning as I squeeze them shut, trying to convince myself that letting go doesn’t mean losing control.

“Why can’t I be like everyone else?” I mutter out loud, a whisper only meant for the wind.