concerned him the most was she looked like a trapped animal. The bra was loose, showing her breasts, her jeans open and barely snagged around her hips, but she seemed unconcerned about that. Then he thought about where he was, in front of the door. All the mixed messages about choice, and the still untapped mystery of her mind on that subject in particular, told him he had to make sure she understood.
If she could understand. That was the most unsettling thought of all.
“I don’t want to leave, but if you need me to go, Daralyn, I can go. It’s all right.” It was the last thing he wanted to do, and he wasn’t even sure if it was the right thing to do. He’d still make sure she knew she had that option. He always wanted her to know that.
Problem was, he didn’t think words were what would help her understand that. And he’d just made the mistake he’d warned himself about. He’d asked her to tell him what she wanted. Or needed, which fell in the same category.
Her expression became more desperate and torn. She was rigid, and she’d crossed her arms over herself. Now she was fighting to talk and couldn’t, her breath starting to rasp.
Fuck. A panic attack. Whatever else was going on here, that took priority.
“We’re all right,” he said, backing the chair so he wasn’t blocking the doorway. “Breathe. Sit down on the bed for me. I need you to sit down and breathe.”
She sank down on it, and bowed her head. Her back was to him, the stiff curve of it showing the stark lines of her vertebrae. When she shivered, he wanted to go to her, wrap his arms around her, but the opening between the wall and the bed on that side was too narrow for his chair. Whether it was intentional, so he couldn’t easily reach her, or unintentional, it accomplished the same thing. Keeping him at arm’s length.
The helpless rage he felt was the kind he knew too well. He’d take it out on his punching bag later. For now, he kept murmuring to her, even as his heart hurt, even when she curled forward over herself, as if her own pain was more than she could bear. “Daralyn,” he said softly.
“I’m so sorry, Rory. So sorry.”
“There is nothing to be sorry about. We’re okay, you and me. Nothing is wrong. Nothing that can’t be fixed.”
Her shoulders hunched. He wasn’t sure if she heard him. “I’ll see you at the store tomorrow,” she said. “It will be fine.”
Another of her cues. She couldn’t say what she wanted, but if she said something was fine, it meant she was spinning herself up. Unless he backed off, it would get worse.
Leaving her like this was counter to everything he wanted to be for her, do for her. But just like he’d known he should have accompanied her to her first day at school, his gut told him it was time to back off. He was going to knock that fucking punching bag off its hook.
The thought helped him keep the frustration out of his voice. He hoped. “I’m going, but first, how about you take your robe off the hook on the closet there, put it on? You’re cold, and I don’t want you to be cold.”
After a long second, she rose stiffly. She had her back to him when she let the bra slide off her shoulders and plucked the pink plush robe off the hook. It had hearts embroidered on it. Marcus and Thomas had given it to her for Valentine’s Day.
When she wrapped herself in it, she sank back down on the bed. Back still to him, her arms wrapped over herself. She was rocking.
He clutched his push rims in tense fists. “You can call me if you need me, okay? Tell me you’re hearing me, Daralyn.”
He didn’t know if it was for her benefit or his, which only increased his frustration, but she did respond.
“Yes. I hear you.” Her voice was strained, like she was trying to be heard over a storm wind. She repeated herself. “I’ll see you at the store tomorrow. Okay?”
“Okay,” he said.
Uncertain, he took his time making his way to the front door. Closing it behind him was like slamming his heart in a car door. Her bedroom only had one window, and it faced the back field. Not great terrain for him to get his chair back there. Otherwise, he would have