Page 53 of Hell In A Handbasket
“I know.”
“And Aubree isn’t even mad. So my mad is stupid and unnecessarily dramatic. But every time I think it’s gone, she talks and I’m right back to pissed off.”
“You’re overstimulated.” I crush her against the tree and step closer, crowding her with me. Justme. Even though it makes the heat hotter, and the sensory overload worse, I shield her from the rest of the world and force her to seeme. “You were brought here under false pretenses. Hey?” I swipe a single, errant tear from her cheek and cup her face. “She lied. And fuck, we know she does that. We already know who she is, Mayet. But you had a plan for this week, and a plan for this case. And you especially have a plan for protecting Aubree. Then Sophia screwed that over. It’s so fucking hot, and your clothes are sticky and there are alotof people. A lot. So many personalities. So much noise.”
“I feel so stupid.” She hiccups, her chest bouncing and her lungs spasming. “I’m crying because I got my feelings hurt.”
“You’re not crying. You’re in a complete sensory overload, and your body is trying to protect you. You surround yourself with sterile environments. With autopsy rooms where, most often, your only companion is a dead body. Aubree visits, too, but even she learned to shut the hell up and let you work.”
“Everyone is having fun,” she whimpers. “Everyone is getting along. Even Felix and Kane. Even Cato and Jay. Everyone is normal and knows how to let dumb shit go, but every time I remember how I felt when I figured Soph out, I get angry all over again. It makes it nearly impossible to breathe.”
“You know what overstimulation means, Minka.” I rub her hands, warming them despite the oppressive heat. “You know these terms. You might not think they apply to you, but scientifically, you know what it means.”
“I’m an adult, Archer! I’m a grown woman who knows how to control her emotions. This is ridiculous.”
“This is something that’s been coming for a long time.” I tuck her hair behind her ear and lean closer. Heavier. I become a weighted blanket, just for her. Worsening the heat, but—hopefully—calming her racing pulse. “It’s okay to be mad at Soph. She’s infuriating, simply by existing.”
She chokes out a shaky laugh, a torrent of fresh tears spilling over her cheeks.
“And it issofucking hot out here. She brought us to Satan’s Asshole. InJune. For the rest of my existence, I swear to become the man Timothy Malone wanted me to be. I’ll torture her, one bamboo stick at a time, till she learns to bring us somewhere better next time.”
“Oh, God.” She sobs and giggles. Cries and snickers. “You’re trying to joke me out of this.”
“I’ll do whatever you need me to do.” I kiss her cheek, the salty flavor of her devastation transferring to my lips. “I’ll be whatever you need me to be.”
“I’m not actually mad at her. Not more than I am any other time.”
“No, you’re not.” I kiss the other side. Keep it even. Keep it balanced so her mind can move past it. “You’re mad at her a regular, measured amount. But you’re also dysregulated, out of routine, away from your home, and you don’t wanna admit it,” I grab her jaw and silently celebrate when her eyes finally lock on to mine, “but you’re away from the cat, too.”
“No, I?—”
“You love to hate her. She’s who you go to when you’re starting to spiral.”
“I come to you.”
I love you too, Mayet. So, so fucking much.
“When I’m not there,” I croon. “Or when we’re on the couch and you’re feeling a certain way and sitting against me isn’t enough.”
She sucks air into her lungs, greedily gulping and searching for more.
“You think we don’t notice, but you bring the cat to your lap and pretend she’s annoying.”
She moans. “You can shut up now.”
“You’re doing great.” I squeeze her under my weight, making it hard for her to expand her lungs. Still, I remain exactly where I am. “You’re coming down again. Can you feel that?”
She gulps, dropping her head in lieu of speaking.
“The chair was annoying you. The heat’s annoying you. We’re sweating, and you didn’t pack ‘going to the lake’ clothes. You didn’t blow-dry your hair after swimming, which means it’s not as smooth as you’re used to. And fuck knows, you didn’t sleep in a comfortable bed last night.”
“I don’t cry.” She sniffles. “I never cry.”
Except that time in the shower, when she was freezing and scared. When she was sick and had spent the better part of a day digging up a skeleton in the rain.
“It’s not crying.” I bury my nose at the back of her ear. “Do you consider a volcanic eruption as the mountain crying? Or is it letting out a little pressure?”
“Pressure.” She drags her hands from mine, but then she circles my torso and lays her cheek on my heart. “It’s a buildup of pressure.”
