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I get the wild urge to peck my lips against his cheek and I do it and then I step away from him and I tell my brain not to dare start overthinking.
“What’s for dinner?” I ask with a smile, like my face isn’t burning.
He blinks at me, mouth halfway open.
After a second, he says, “Cheek.” Then he blinks harder and shakes his head. “Chicken.Strips.” He smiles back at me and then lets out a small laugh. “Homemade chicken strips and homemade fries!”
“Yummy!” Rae speaks up.
I nod in agreement. “Ooh, yeah. Need any help?”
He points a finger-gun at me. “You can keep me company in the kitchen if you want, but I’d like Miss Rae to hang out on the couch and watch Netflix, nice and far from the hot oil.”
“Oh, good idea.”
He flashes me a smile, then follows an excited Rae into the living room.
I go behind them, unable to help thinking hisbeing bornwas a good idea, too.
I can already tell this is going to be a great night—and that it’s not going to last long enough.
*
It’s never going to stop.
Oh, God, it’s never going to stop.
Never.
God, please, please make him stop,I beg inside my head.Please, please, please.
He doesn’t stop. Not because God strikes him dead. Not because I’m crying and kicking.
I can’t scream very loud with his hand on my mouth. I can’t push him off of me because I’m too little, too weak.
It just happens to me.
There’s nothing I can do about it.
I cry my heart out, wishing I would just die.
Maybe I will. Maybe that’s why it’s so scary and why it hurts so much—because it’s killing me.
It must be.
It’s worse than what Bud did. It’s not just fingers. It’s something else and it’s so much worseand it’s killing me.
Except I don’t die. I don’t go to another place that doesn’t have this in it. Nothing changes at all.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try my hardest to think about something else. Anything else.
But nothing is big enough to block this out.
It’s never going to go away.
It’s never going to go away.
It’s never, ever going to go away.
