Page 77 of Bring You Back

I need light. I’m moving with the thought, my feet carrying me out of the room, through the hall and to the front door, my heart loud in my ears.Breathe, breathe, breathe.I stare at the porch light, still on, the bulb bright, yellow like the sun.

My lungs ache. I hold my breath to ease the pain until they burn, my body forcing me to take in air. Why should I get to live?

It should’ve been me. I should’ve been on the road that night.

Now I’m the one who has no choice but to stand here and breathe.

I won’t be controlled.

I won’t be controlled.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

I’m not sure how much time passes, but the light has blurred, and my body has settled. I don’t feel or hear my pulse, not even my breathing. My body sways, my limbs loose. I blink the light into focus, blink away the sting. One more deep breath.

This has happened before.

I feel the reckless monster poking its talons at the edges of my mind, spreading its hot palm against my back for another push. If I hadn’t left my car back in Ohio. . .

Focus on the light. Light, light, light.

“Camille?”

I spin around. Julian stares back at me from the island, a knife posed in his right hand, a slice of bread in his left, the light above the sink shining behind him. His eyes dance between mine, searching for an answer to what he just witnessed.

I would love an answer to that myself. He’s been right here, watching me this entire time. I try to imagine what he saw, what he heard … what he’s thinking.

His eyes shift to the porch light, then back to me, his throat bobbing on a swallow.

Fuck Julian.

“Careful,” I drone as I amble to the fridge. “Your soft side is showing.” My voice is groggy, words thick.

Julian returns to knifing the spread he’s using for his toast. Butter? I take a peek. Butter.

I shouldn’t poke the elephant. I want this from him. I need this from him. But I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t point it out. If I didn’t remind him that I’ve seen him. That he’s still there.

“Can’t sleep, either?” I ask as I rifle through the bag of grapefruits.

“That’s how it looks.”

I chuckle at his obvious tone. “I’m very observant.”

He chuckles back, low, thinking I’ll miss it. “Why can’t you sleep?”

Grapefruit in hand, I stay hidden inside the fridge a moment longer, wondering if I should take advantage of his sudden interest in being inside my head. I’m too suspicious. Skeptical. Where is it coming from?It’smewho’s supposed to be fighting.

But I can’t fight. Because I have my own shit to shovel. I’m tired. Fed up. Pissed off.

I squeeze my grapefruit as I rise out of hiding, a new decision bubbling in my brain, and without meeting his eyes, I say, “Noise.”

I carry my late night snack to the silverware drawer and search for my knife. It’s gone. “Where’s my knife?”

Julian steps up beside me to the sink, holding my knife, the one I’ve always used, with the chip in the handle. He cleans it of butter and hands it over. His stare finds mine and I hold it a moment before taking the knife. He turns back to the island, and sighs.

He remembers. I don’t let it warm me.

I’m not sure why I love this knife. Still. I’m not particularly fond of broken things. They’re so indigent, wanting something or someone else to fix them instead of fixing themselves.

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