‘Norah?’ He waves a hand in front of my face several moments later, and I am pulled sharply back into the here and now. I hear the drum of my fingers on the tabletop and flatten my palm immediately to make it stop.
I clear my throat, pick at a scab on the side of my finger until it stings. ‘What were you saying?’
He pauses, mouth open, laser eyes fixed on mine, trying to burn their way inside my brain. Even if they make it through they’ll never figure me out.
‘I’m going to go,’ he says, standing.
Fuck. Fuck and shit and hell. And some swear word that has yet to be invented to describe how frustrated I am with myself. I’ve totally messed this up.
‘Luke,’ I say, standing too. I’m on the edge, toes curling over the side. I don’t know what to say. So instead of talking, I chew my fingers.
‘Is there something wrong?’ he asks. He’s not blind. He can see my meltdown as if it were bleaching my skin a bright colour. Pink. Neon. If panic were a colour it’d be neon pink and you’d be able to see its blinding hue from outer space.
I nod.
‘You want to talk about it?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Not yet? But later?’
‘It’s really . . . complicated.’
‘Are you going to tell me you have superpowers?’ I can’t decide if his smile is real or fake.
Tell him. Just tell him. Tell him the whole thing. You may be able to salvage something from this freak show of a situation.
‘I’m awkward.’ Ugh. Even an admission that small tastes like vomit as it claws its way across my tongue.
‘I know,’ he says.
‘You do?’
‘Well, you do spend a lot of time hiding behind doors.’ Don’t cry. Even though your eyes are burning and there’s a glob of hysteria wedged like a chicken bone in your windpipe. Don’t cry. ‘You wanna know a secret?’ Luke asks.
I owe him words at the very least, but all I can manage is a nod.
‘I’m awkward too.’
He’s humouring me, and I’m blinking hearts again. He’s so nice, I desperately wish my mind would give him a break and stop second-guessing his sentiments.
‘I’m going to give you some space. But we’ll talk soon, okay? Maybe I can sit on your porch and you can keep the door closed.’ He holds out his hand for me to shake. I take a step back to avoid contact and stare at his palm like it’s a loaded gun. He retracts it slowly, slips it into his back pocket. My teeth bite down on my bottom lip as I force my eyes to lift and look at him. I’m bracing, convinced I’m going to meet with animosity, but he doesn’t look offended or angry or anything I’d expect. He looks kind of sad. Feeling sorry for me, maybe. Or maybe mourning a friendship that he’s decided won’t go beyond half a cup of coffee. Whatever. All this over a shoelace. Sometimes I wonder if I should be locked in a straitjacket.
‘I’ll see myself out,’ Luke says, heading down the hall.
The door clicks shut, and I wonder if I can buy a lobotomy on eBay.
‘I hate you. I fucking hate you.’ I seethe at my reflection through tight teeth. Tears roll down my cheeks and drip, drip, drip on to my shirt, making Rorschach patterns that I don’t dare try to decipher.
An urge that I haven’t felt in a long time is burning inside my stomach. I take a deep breath, but air has the consistency of tar as I suck it back and choke it down. I lean on the sink, claw at the porcelain basin. It’s no good. I’m spiralling and I can’t stop it.
Panic is bad. Panic mixed with disdain for yourself is worse.
Maybe I can sit on your porch and you can keep the door closed.
It burns, makes my ears bleed. I wonder how many times he’s said that to Amy.
Never. Not once. God. I’m such a freak. I want to climb out of my own skin.
The room undulates. There’s no one here, but I feel like there are hands on me, pushing me around and around in a circle. My head throbs; my teeth start chattering.
Most of the time I can ride out a panic attack. I just curl up in a ball and wait for it to pass. There’s something about knowing it will come to an end that I’m certain of. Despite the way my body behaves, it feels manageable. But when it’s mixed with anger or rage, something shifts, and control feels further out of reach.
I open the bathroom cabinet, grab the nail scissors, and wilt to the floor.
Maybe I can sit on your porch and you can keep the door closed.
‘Shh.’ I press a finger to my lips, try to quiet my head, but the whirring sounds persist. There’s static rattling around inside my skull, mixing with Luke’s promise to stay ten feet away the next time we talk.
I lean back, feel the coldness of the bathtub side seeping through my shirt. My legs part and my fingers glide over the inside of my thigh, tracing the lumps and bumps of tiny scars.
‘Please stop.’ I bury my face in my hands, mash the heels of my palms against my eyes until I can see coloured spots.