Page 103 of Whiskey Throttle
His jaw clenches, and his lips press into a line. I don’t say anything, just wait for him. Having learned that long ago. The sound of the ticking clock fills the space until he sprinkler system outside whooshes on to water the hedgerow. The little droplets ping against the base of the window panes.
“Do you remember that lexicon we did when I was a kid?”
Lexicon. Linguistics. We did them all.
“The one about feelings?”
His head dips, a side glance at his friend, and I wonder if he’s embarrassed or ashamed of the tactics we had to start using in elementary school.
“I do, but are you sure you want Hollister to stay for that?” I glance at him. He straightens in his chair.
“Yeah, I can wait in the other room, if you?—”
“No, stay. You know how fucked I am. It doesn’t matter.” His words are cutting and harsh, insulting to himself, and abandoning the agreement with his girlfriend to keep the profanity in check.
“Okay.”
Hollister settles back into his chair, looking very uncomfortable. As if he’s invading something private and sacred. It is, but if Dom wants him to hear, then I will follow his lead and support him.
“You remember the rules, right?” His gaze pins me to my chair. Rules around feelings. It was the only way we could operate after things took a turn for the worse.
I lick my lips and exhale. “I do.”
“Good.”
He looks up at the ceiling, his breath a bit heavy for this exercise. My anxiety has gone down by how calm this is starting, but feelings have a way of exploding and leaving messes all over people to clean up. Usually, his mess is left for me to deal with, remaining calm and handling the aftermath.
“I feel pain in my head.”
This is how we always started. I try not to get misty-eyed when he looks at me. I blink rapidly to get a hold of myself. His voice is almost robotic. Removing all bitterness and venom, to focus on the feelings and label them as he used to. I breathe in, keeping my voice even.
“I feel pain in my heart.”
Naming the thing so it doesn’t name you. I never understood that statement, but this helped Dominic, and that’s all that mattered. His hands grip his knees. His eyes flick to me, and I see it. The smallest crack in his stoic shell. The boy I raised. Still inside. Still hurting.
“I feel pressure in my chest.”
“I feel heat in my face.”
“I feel like I’m shaking even when I’m not.”
“I feel guilt in my stomach.”
Our voices overlap. A dance, in matching tempo and matching weight. He swallows hard, voice rasping.
“I feel anger in my fists. I feel confusion in my brain. I feel betrayal from you in my back.”
It’s new.
That last one.
It lands like a sucker punch. I nod slowly, repressing my emotion so his can escape. It’s hard on me. It takes a toll, but it opens the door to more communication.
“I feel sadness in my spine. I feel grief in my ribs. I feel longing in my hands.”
He stares at me. That sharp, analytical gaze I know so well. Reading me like a neurochemistry book. The fragile thread of trust hangs delicately between us as we knit our relationship back together.
“I feel fear in my legs because I think I’m gonna run.”
