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“No,” Cornell said, putting the gear into reverse and zooming out of their driveway.
He had no idea how he made it home, let alone in one piece. The entire drive was flooded with all the things Cornell’s imagination darkly painted, the things he hadn’t seen with his own eyes and all the things he had.
There was Graham in Ali’s office.
There was Graham in their home, the now unmistakable haze in his eyes as he looked at her—the look of a predator, a wolf to Ali in sheep’s clothing.
You let that happen. You brought him right here, right to the front door and into your home—her home. His hands clenched the steering wheel tightly before he released it and pressed his palms against his eyes, desperate to pull the images from them one by one.
Try or not, he couldn’t say the word, couldn’t think it. You let him violate her.
Suddenly, Cornell’s chest tightened, and he grew so hot he had to open the car door, heaving halfway out of the seat.
“What’s wrong?” His father ran from the house. “Where’s Ali?”
Her name brought a stinging, stabbing sensation to Cornell’s chest.
“Is she okay?”
No, God, no, she’s not okay.
“Take me to the hospital,” Cornell panted, rubbing his sternum, desperate for relief.
Peter bent to look at him, eyes wide. “Is she there—”
“No. It’s me,” Cornell screamed, his entire upper body seizing in tightness. “I’m having a fucking heart attack.”
His father sighed, unclipping his seatbelt, trying to swing Cornell’s legs to dangle out of the car. “You’re alright. It’s a panic attack. Lean forward. Deep breaths.”
None of them were deep enough, and Cornell continued to hear his own gasps.
“You’re alright,” Peter repeated.
His breathing finally slowed. As his father continued to rub his back, Cornell’s exhales, which should’ve been steady and silent, escaped as loud, uneven sobs.
“Cornell, deep breaths. I promise everything’s alright,” his father said, trying to reassure him.
Things with Peter might have taken a turn for the better over the last year, but his father had never been good at keeping promises, so Cornell knew nothing would ever be alright again.
* * *
“Cornell?”
“He tried. He tried, but I ran away.”
Cornell didn’t give the punching bag a chance to drift closer. It was one jab after the other—fast, full, and furious.
“Cornell?”
There was a pulsing in his body that Cornell was frantic to release, to explode. It was his blood pumping, his pulse pounding, his anger raging.
This is my fucking heart breaking.
“Cornell,” his father called again, and Cornell stopped and held the bag still. “I talked with Janice. I’m going to stay.”
“No,” he told Peter, shaking his head against the worn bag. “You need to go home.”
Peter stepped into the garage, sighing. “I don’t know what happened. But you shouldn’t be alone right now.”
