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My knees buckle, and I collapse.
I’ve fallen off the tightrope.
My sobs come out in a wheeze.
I’ve even lost my fucking voice.
But the birds keep singing.
I need to do something.
If I don’t, I fear I’ll lose myself, and I won’t come back.
When I open my mouth, I fill my lungs, and I scream.
It’s swallowed by the trees, so I dig my fingers into the grass and scream again. I’m choking on my sobs, feeling myself shatter with every breath. All the pieces explode. It boils over because the agony is so severe; it needs a way out.
And I need my fucking voice back.
Strong arms are around me with the next strangled roar, muffled against his shoulder. I claw at his chest, throw my fists at it, only to drag him back. He’s the only one capable of holding me and making me feel like I can reclaim all those pieces and put myself back together.
I couldn’t breathe.
Death must be easier than this.
Roughly, he grabs either side of my head. There’s no judgment in those whiskey eyes, only understanding. “Don’t stop,” he orders. “It’s your fucking voice, baby. Don’t allow anyone to take it. Use it. Scream.”
I might be losing everything else, but I can’t lose my voice.
My throat is burning, my eyes are heavy, and I’m on the brink of exhaustion, but I fight through, and I scream.
I scream for my mother, for Hannah, for Beth, for Jake, for Jess.
For me.
My voice doesn’t give out, but my tired muscles do, and I fall in a heap into Jake’s arms. Not moving, he simply holds me until my wails subside and the sobs allow me to have my breath back. The world is a little clearer when I open my eyes.
Building enough energy, I kneel between his legs and sit back on my heels. We’re both panting, grasping at anything to hold us together. My head falls, but he’s quick to lift it again. Scrubbing his palms over my face, he dries my sticky cheeks.
Our frantic breaths mingle, and a thousand unspoken words linger between us.
“Keep breathing, sweetheart. One breath at a time.”
Chapter Forty-One
“Leave? You want me to take leave?”
The word hangs in the air between us like a bomb ready to detonate.
“It’s paid leave.” She says it like it should make me feel better. It doesn’t.
“I don’t care if it’s paid. I want to go back to work.” I’m trying not to shout here, but sweet Jesus. “Nora, this is bullshit, and you know it.”
I look to Jake for help, but his head is hanging between his shoulders as he grips the counter. He isn’t looking at me. He hasn’t done much of it in days.
My blood is boiling and instinctively, I scratch at my neck but drop my hand when she notices.
“You need time. It’s only been a week. Your bruises haven’t even healed.”
