Page 87 of The Next Lie

I hate that the sound keeps coming out of me anyway.

He murmurs against my temple. I can’t make out the words at first. They’re too low, too even, and my own breathing is wrecked. It takes a while for the room to come back. It does so in pieces.

The mats under my knees. The ache in my shoulders. The gloves on my hands.

Ever’s chest at my back. His voice.

“Breathe first. Fight later.”

I shake my head. He keeps smoothing my hair.

“Plenty of time to be angry.”

Another broken sound catches in my throat.

“I can’t,” I finally manage.

“You are.”

“No.” I try to drag in air, but it stutters. “I can’t keep doing this. Every time I get one answer, it makes three more places bleed.”

His hold tightens by a fraction. A month earlier I’d have felt trapped, but it’s an anchor now. Not a cage.

“Then bleed here.”

I go still.

He says it like it’s simple. Like he doesn’t understand that people spend their entire lives learning how not to do that. They bleed in bathrooms with the shower running. In ambulances after the patient is handed off. In stairwells. In parked cars. In the half second before someone asks if you’re okay, and you lie so fast it sounds rehearsed.

He wants me to bleed here. With him.

The sound breaks out of me again, and I fold.

Ever rocks me.

He puts his arms around me and rocks, just a small, steady movement back and forth while I come apart in a way I have refused to let myself do since I was old enough to understand that grief could become its own entity if I allowed it.

He doesn’t tell me it’s okay. He doesn’t tell me to calm down. He doesn’t ask for the why behind my tears while I’m still choking on them.

He simply holds me until the keening turns into sobs, until the sobs turn into shaking, until the shaking becomes exhaustion heavy enough that I can feel each muscle surrender.

My cheek ends up against his shirt. My legs are folded awkwardly. One of the gloves presses into my stomach. I should move.

I don’t.

Ever’s hand moves over my hair one more time, then rests at the nape of my neck.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

I snort. It is not a ladylike sound. Considering the morning I’ve had, though, it’s the best I can offer. I shake my head against his chest.

His mouth brushes my hair, light enough that I could pretend it didn’t happen if either of us were cowards.

We are many things. We’re not cowards.

“What do you want?” he asks.

I lift my head.