The Hearts We Sold(29)

She wanted to tell him that she was not going to throw up; she was fine, she was totally fine—

But her fear became a knot in her throat, choking back anything she might have said. She’d managed to stave off the fear, to ignore the implications of it all, but now it felt as if her empty chest was filling with panic.

She tried to recall the old stories, to remember any scrap of wisdom that might get her out of this. People who panicked in fairy tales ended up doing something stupid and getting themselves devoured by wolves or making bread crumb trails or chopping off body parts. In those stories, the survivors were those who managed to keep a cool head, who could outwit the villains.

The problem was, she still didn’t know who the villains were.

She needed to stay calm, to think this through. Her hands fisted, nails biting into her palms. She took a deep breath of air and then another, gulping as if she might never breathe again. “Hey, hey,” said James, hastening over to her. He reached out as if to touch her, then appeared to think better of it. “Look at me. No, look at me.”

She looked at him.

“I’ve been at this for a while now,” he said, “and I’m still here. You will be, too, so long as you’re smart about this.” He held her gaze, intent and focused, and when he spoke, it was with the cadence of one talking someone off a high ledge. “You want to know a secret?”

He obviously expected an answer, so she forced a nod.

“Whenever I panic, I think to myself, I chose this,” he told her.

She stared at him. “That’s it. That’s your self-affirmation right there. I chose this? Not Everything’s going to be all right or all things pass?”

“I’ve never been all that good at lying to myself,” he replied, smiling. “Somehow I think you’re the same.”

She huffed.

He looked out at the river and the rocks at their feet. “Most people feel like their lives are out of their control. Like everything could change in a moment, depending on luck or chance. And while that’s probably true, I like to think that I was the one who made the choices that brought me to this moment. They may have been bad or good choices—I don’t know. They might have been mistakes. But all I know is that I’m the one who made them. I brought myself here. I chose this.”

“And that makes you feel better?” she asked, intrigued despite herself.

“It means that I can’t blame my life on circumstances or chance,” he said. “It also means I could make another choice, make another change. It keeps me in control.” He looked around, as if searching for a way to help her. “What do you do when you panic?”

“Generally, I just panic,” she said, her throat tight. “But—my roommate vivisects teddy bears when she’s stressed.”

He blinked. She had a feeling that people didn’t surprise him all that often. “Your roommate. Vivisects. Teddy bears.” The look of shock on his face snapped her back to reality. “No wonder you haven’t panicked until now.”

I chose this, she thought. I chose this.

And something in her stomach settled.

That was unexpected. But not unwelcome.

I chose this.

She thought the words again and again, held them like a talisman against her missing heart, and slowly she felt herself unwind. The panic faded.

James watched her. She looked up, expecting to see pity or even disgust for her cowardice. But rather he looked… satisfied. “Better?”

Wordlessly, she nodded.

He took a step back, as if to give her space. “You know, I think we’ve collected enough. You want to get out of here?”

She could not feel her feet anymore; she wriggled her toes beneath the cold water, thought it might be a good idea to stand on dry land again. She followed him up the concrete incline, past the toddlers and the college students, to the parking lot. He didn’t press her to speak, even when he vanished around the back of the car and reemerged with a towel. She used it to dry her feet and ankles, then passed it back. Once inside the car, he cranked the heater to full and directed it at their legs.

It took several minutes, but she began to thaw.





FIFTEEN


T he last time Dee was invited to a family Thanksgiving was when she was fourteen. It was held at one of her uncles’ homes. In a small suburb outside of San Jose, the Morenos clustered into the house—a tent erected in the backyard for the children. Dee was just old enough to merit a couch, but she elected to sleep outside with the other kids. She liked listening to the sound of the traffic and the neighbors, liked breathing in the air that smelled of sunlight and freshly mown grass.

There were about twelve cousins running around, and she found herself intimidated by their height and experience; they talked too quickly and used slang she didn’t know. There were three dogs: two large mutts that seemed cowed by another relative’s Pomeranian. Adults gathered in the kitchen, cracked open beers on the counter and argued jovially about whose turn it was to use the oven. Someone ended up cooking the turkey on the barbecue outside because there simply wasn’t enough room in the kitchen. One of Dee’s great-aunts kept asking for those “good, home-cooked rolls” and Dee watched her uncle pull out a tube of the instant-bake ones when he thought no one was looking.

The dinner was chaotic and loud and Dee liked it.