Under Rose-Tainted Skies(36)

I dab my mouth with a cucumber-fresh wet wipe – I can’t use the towel on my face on account of this article I read about bathroom bacteria that breed in fabric.

‘He’s nice. He’ll understand,’ I tell my reflection.

And if he doesn’t?

‘Then it’s like Dr Reeves’s story. I don’t need him as a friend.’ I wish my bottom lip weren’t wobbling when I said that.

As casually as I can muster, I trot downstairs, take the last step twice, and saunter to the kitchen. I’m trying to channel breezy, floating, pretending like I don’t even care that he’s here.

I hope he can’t see the strain on my face.

‘Good morning, sweetheart,’ my mom chirps from beneath her oversize straw hat. She’s wearing the teddy bear sweater. ‘Look who I found while I was out weeding that pesky patch of daisies in the front yard.’ Luke jumps up from his seat, knocking the table with his elbow and making his coffee cup rattle.

‘Hi. My classes don’t start till ten. There’s this school administration thing going on,’ he says. ‘I was hoping maybe I’d catch you hanging out by your front door.’ I stare at him. He stares back. Something about his stance makes me think of a dog with its tail between its legs.

‘Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have more weeds to destroy,’ my mom says, picking up a trowel and swishing it around like a sword. She trots past me, plants a kiss on my cheek before heading out of the front door.

Then silence.

Amy. That’s the name of the enormous elephant he’s carted into my kitchen. I’m okay with that. The longer we spend talking about the text debacle, the more likely he is to forget about my life debacle.

The tornado in my head picks up speed and I have to scratch. I need to stay busy. The silence is a lit burner and my panic attack is already starting to bubble. I exhale a breath, head to the fridge, pour myself a glass of orange juice, and take a sip. It makes me cringe. Freshly squeezed citrus and recently brushed teeth do not mix.

When I turn around, Luke is channelling his inner psychic and attempting to read my mind, again. I wonder if he realizes that concentration won’t make my skull any more transparent.

Does he want me to break the silence? I hope not. I’d be more comfortable sharing a swimming pool with a gaggle of potty-training toddlers.

‘About the text . . .’ he says. Half my brain is with him; the other half is straightening a tub of butter in the fridge. ‘You remember me telling you about Queen Amy?’

‘You said she was hunting you.’ Ugh. My voice wobbles nearly as much as my knees.

‘Right. See, she just broke up with this guy, Derek, and, well . . .’ He pauses, sits down, squirms in his seat. ‘She keeps dropping not-so-subtle hints that she wants to hook up with me.’ I glare at a jar of mayonnaise, try to melt it into mush with my mind. ‘She is one insistent chick.’

If he starts detailing said insistence, I might have to pick up this damn fridge and throw it. At least, I would if I weren’t, you know, teetering on the precipice of panic.

‘You don’t have to tell me this. It’s really none of my business.’ I fight to get the words out.

‘Thing is, she kept calling, so I blocked her number. Last night, when you messaged, I didn’t recognize the digits and just assumed it was her, using a friend’s phone or something.’ I turn to him, relieved, though I’m sure I don’t look it. Holding off anxiety feels like clenching your teeth for a prolonged period. My face aches; pressure is building at the back of my neck.

‘I would have told you this last night, but my phone up and died on me. I don’t know what’s wrong with it. Anyway, I just needed you to know that I don’t go around giving out my phone number to every girl I meet.’ He puts emphasis on the word you, a sentiment that I’m sure would make me feel like a million bucks under different circumstances.

More silence. Stretching out for ever.

There’s nothing to think about. There’s nothing to do. My head whips around the room searching for a distraction, which is when it hits me that I’ve forgotten to breathe. So easily done.

‘Norah. You don’t look so good,’ Luke says, the tempo of his words rising.

My heart stops dead. It makes me light-headed, and I have to grab the countertop to steady myself. I’m free-falling.

‘Whoa. Are you okay?’ Luke panics, lurches towards me, and snatches my arm. His fingers close around my wrist.

His flesh, pressed against mine. His palm is warm, damp. I think of pores, open pores on my arm, and his sweat settling on my skin. He sees me glaring, releases me immediately, and lifts his hands in surrender.

‘Norah, honey. Relax, take a deep breath.’ My mom swans into the kitchen, 700 per cent casual as poor Luke loses his shit all over our linoleum.

‘I’m sorry,’ Luke splutters. ‘I thought she was going to fall.’

‘Don’t worry about it.’ My mom dismisses his apology with a flick of her wrist then continues to wash the soil off her hands in the sink.

The kitchen is turning. Words are melding into one.

‘Do you need me to do something?’ Luke can’t stand still. He’s looking at my mom like he might be getting irritated by her lack of haste. Thing is, when you’ve lived this a thousand times, it becomes less of a trauma and more of a scraped-knee type situation. ‘Is there something I can do?’