Page 25 of Fifty First Times (Sharing You 0.40)
I just stand here as my heart squeezes into a tight ball, because what do you say when someone says something like that?
“Listen,” he finally says. “I know there’s nothing about this that doesn’t suck, but I don’t think you should let it stop you from living, you know? I mean, you survived. All by itself, that’s reason to celebrate, don’t you think?”
At the word “survived,” the bomb goes off in my head again. When Rick grabs my arm, I realize it’s because my legs have given out. He lowers me into the loveseat and I press my forehead into my knees and fold my arms over my head, trying to hold myself together.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . . fuck!” I hear his feet on the wood of the deck as he paces away, then comes back. “I want to help you, but I have no fucking clue how to do that, so I just keep hurting you instead.”
“You’re not hurting me,” I tell my knees.
He lowers himself onto the loveseat. “Can you . . . would it help to talk about it?”
Forcing air into my lungs, I lift my head off my knees and lean back into the cushions. Every shrink I’ve had since this started has wanted me to talk about it. They say it will help my survivor’s guilt. I don’t because the words to describe what happened are too small. I couldn’t string them together into anything big enough to do Chris and the others justice. But with that thought, it suddenly feels like an insult to them to stop living. I shake the image from my head and pull myself together. “So, where are we going?”
There’s a long pause, and in it, I hear the rustle of hair. I can picture Rick, a crease between his brows, raking a hand through his blond mop, deciding if he should push me for more. He must decide against it. “You like pizza?”
I nod.
“You been to Giovanni’s?”
“No. Is it good?”
“Great pizza, dim lighting . . . everything you could ask for. I’ll call on our way and they’ll have it ready when we get there.” He pauses and slips his hand into mine. “Okay?”
Adrenaline surges through my veins until I shake with it. Can I do it? With Rick’s help? “Yeah . . . okay.”
I CAN’T DO IT.
The closer we get, the more I shake, and by the time we roll into the crowded parking lot, I’m a wreck.
“V? We don’t have to. I just thought . . .” He trails off, then hisses, “Damn. I’m sorry. I keep screwing this up.”
I force air in and out through my tight throat, then pull my face out of my hands. “It’s not your fault, but I just . . . I can’t.”
It’s dusk outside and the car is all shadows until he flings his door open. I hide my face again.
“Stay here,” he says, then heads into the restaurant.
I sit in the dark of the car with my hand over my face. “Invisible,” I whisper. “I am invisible.”
I jump and scream with a loud noise from the other side of the glass before my brain registers “dog.”
I look up at a big, brown dog, poking its head out of the window of the car a few feet away. It gives me another bark, then pulls its head in.
I’m still shaking when the door opens and Rick climbs in. He’s got a large pizza box with two drink cups balanced on top. He presses the cups into the holders in the console between us and hands me the box.
“I thought we could . . . Hey? You okay?”
I drag my arm across my upper lip to wipe away the sweat. “I just . . . can we go?”
We pull out of the parking lot, and when we stop again, it’s at a park. It’s dark, but in the flickering streetlight I see what looks like an empty playground.
“Okay?” he asks as we roll to a stop.
I can’t even believe he’s not dumping me on the curb in front of my house and bolting. I breathe deeply and huff out an “Okay.”
“You got the pizza?” he asks, and I hear ice rattle in the cups as he grabs them.
I nod, lifting the box.
