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I feel him crouch down. I’m only seeing all the sharp pieces of the cup, and I’m still mopping at the coffee with the towel.
I hear the shattering again in my head, over and over and over.
Then his hands cover mine, stopping the movement. My whole body freezes. This is it. This is when it happens.
“Move.” I hear the words in my head.
I know.
I know I need to move.
I can’t. I can’t move.
There is no breath left in my lungs and I’m gasping.
I squeeze my eyes closed.
I feel James’s hands leave mine and I’m ready. I’m as ready as I can be for when the strike comes.
I wait for it.
I don’t know how long I stay there on one knee with my other leg stretched out. I barely hear the clank of cup pieces being stacked together, water running in the sink, cloth rubbing softly over the floor.
Then the presence is back. Hulking over me, and I try to get smaller, willing the shaking to stop.
One finger tips up my chin and then is gone before I can flinch.
“Open your eyes, Lorelai.” His tone is low, soft even, but there is a command in his voice I can’t disobey.
I open my eyes a small slit. I see that he’s sitting on the floor in front of me. He isn’t looming.
“Breathe,” he says. “Breathe.” He sucks in a breath and then lets it whoosh out. My eyes jump to his face. He isn’t angry.
“Breathe with me,” and again I hear him breath in and then out. I realize then that I’m wheezing, gasping for air.
“Breathe,” he says again. I find myself breathing with him. In, and then out. In, and out again. Over and over, until the steel band releases my chest, until the grayness dissipates from my vision, until the shaking slows, until the tension in my body eases.
He just sits on the floor facing me, breathing for me, setting a pace for me to match.
Finally, I rub my face with one hand as consciousness rolls back in. Fuck.
“Is it okay if I lift you up,” he asks. I test out my limbs, but they don't listen to what I want. So I nod.
He gets up and leans over toward me. I feel his hands grip my waist, and he lifts me up like a child and settles me onto the stool he righted with a foot. Then he steps back and gets plates from the cabinet, and cuts into the casserole, dishing out sections. He pulls down another couple of cups from the hooks on the walls and fills them from the pot.
I sit on the stool, watching him act like I didn’t just have a panic attack over a spilled cup of coffee. He loads the plates and cups onto a tray, adding cutlery and cream and sugar and napkins. He carries it around the other doorway to the little table and unloads it one thing at a time. After he has everything on the table, he reaches to the shelf over the loveseat, grabs a lighter, and lights the votive in the center of the table.
“Need a hand?” He asks, motioning to the table.
I feel sturdier now, so I shake my head. Once he’s seated, I limp over and take the other chair. My cheeks are flaming red, I’m sure. I feel them blazing.
This man has been nothing but gentle and kind to me, and I don’t want him to think he caused my freak out. I feel like I should explain. I start, but the words get stuck in the back of my throat. I can’t force them out.
James has forked a few mouthfuls already by the time I give up. He shakes his fork at the plate and swallows before he asks,” What do you call this? It’s delicious.”
I answer automatically. “I don’t know. It’s just something I’ve made from the time I was young.” I shrug. “Cornbread breakfast casserole, I guess.”
“When you were young?” The surprise is clear on his face. “How old were you when you started making this?”
