The Man I Love (The Fish Tales, #1)(105)

Someone knelt by his other side and put a hand on his shoulder. “Erik.”

It was Miles. He was pale behind his horn-rimmed glasses, but his melodious voice was calm and unwavering. He shifted to sit down, cross-legged, and took Erik’s hand in his. “Erik, look at me.”

Erik struggled to focus.

“Fish, it’s Miles. Look at me. Come back to me.”

“It’s happening again,” Erik whispered.

“But not to you,” Miles said. “You’re not there. You’re here with me. Look at me.”

“What’s the matter with him?” Melanie said, her voice cracking with fright.

“He was at Lancaster,” Miles said.

A murmuring gasp of recognition rippled through the lounge.

“Oh, Jesus,” Melanie whispered.

“Daisy,” Erik said. The panic intensified. It had happened again. No known fatalities, the news said. But in his constricted, writhing heart, Erik knew it wasn’t true. Someone’s son died today. Someone’s daughter would die tonight. Kids would lie in hospital beds. Blood would be all over their lives. Dreams and fairytales in bloody pieces on the floor.

“Squeeze my hand,” Miles said. “Stay with me.”

Erik nodded, breathing hard through his mouth, squeezing Miles’ fingers hard. He started to shake.

Squeeze my hands, Marge. Go ahead and break my fingers…

“I’m cold,” he whispered. How could he be cold with this fire in his veins?

“Let’s get him off the floor,” Melanie said.

“No,” Erik said. “No, don’t.” Though cold, the floor was good, pressed all along the backs of his legs and shoulders and head, grounding him.

But blood was all over the floor.

“Daisy.”

“People, please back up, give him some room,” Miles said. “He was at Lancaster, this is upsetting. Let him have some air. Can someone get some water, please?”

“Think we need an ambulance?”

“No, I think we’re riding a hell of an adrenaline wave here, it just has to run its course. Hang onto me, Erik, just hang on. This is now. You’re with me.”

“Erik, think you can sit up, baby?”

He sat up. Comforting hands on his shoulders and back. His head was pounding behind his eyeballs and he felt a little sick. His limbs burned. Someone handed him a bottle of water, icy cold and dripping condensation.

“Just a sip,” Melanie said. “Hold it in your mouth and swallow slowly.”

“Nice and easy,” Miles said. “You’re all right.”

“It’s all right, baby.”

Erik sipped, water dripping down his chin. “It’s not all right.” He slumped and put his forehead on Melanie’s shoulder. “It’ll never be all right for them again.”

“Is there someone I can call for you?” Her arms were strong but he could not trust them. Nothing could be trusted. Sweat dripped down his neck. Desperation swirled in him like an evil vortex. The only ones he could trust were lost to him. He had driven them away, set the world on fire and now he was alone. And forgotten. They wouldn’t look for him anymore.

“Nobody,” he said. “There’s nobody left.”

“It’s all right, baby. I’m here. I’m with you.” Her hand pressed against the back of his head, her lips brushed his face.

He was about to lean further into her comfort, then recoiled again.

I already leaned into her, he thought. I left the penny behind and leaned into the joy, and now he’s making me pay. This will always happen when I lean in and trust the moment.

“I can’t,” he whispered. Blood is all over everything, blood will always follow joy. James will never let me be.

Melanie brought her body to his, pulled him into her. “Feel me,” she said. “I’m here. This is now. I’m right here.”

His hands clutched the back of her sweater. The trembling intensified.

“Mel,” he whispered.

“It’s all right.”

“Mel, I can’t do this again.”

Because I never did it the first time.





The Irrevocable Part


She took him to her place. Once inside, hunched in one of her kitchen chairs, he couldn’t stop shaking. He was cold to his bones. Melanie pressed maternal hands to his forehead and claimed he wasn’t running a fever. She put her teakettle on and while waiting for it to come to a boil, gave him a pill. “Take it. You’re going bye-bye now.”

He swallowed it without question. If she had handed him a cyanide capsule, he would have taken it quietly as well. Anything to make it stop.

He followed her, willing and docile as a duckling, to her bedroom, where she took his shoes and eased him into her bed, piled the covers high on top of him. She sat, holding his hand, until the sides of his mind folded in and the roof came gently down.

And then, nothing.

When he awoke, the windows were dark. Melanie was sitting beside him, propped up against a mountain of pillows, reading. He was curled up tight against the length and warmth of her legs, his face pressed to her hip. Her hand was quiet on his back.

“Hey,” she said.

It was an effort to pry his tongue off the roof of his mouth. Without a word she passed him a mug from the bedside table. It was tea, hot and sweet with a lot of milk. He drank a few gulps, then she took it away and he lay back down.