get to the second floor, I realize that while the downstairs was cool, this part of the store is freaking awesome. In front of us, there’s a tilted bookshelf designed to look like it has books flying out of it like seagulls.
I peek over the railing, down to the first floor. It’s huge. Rows and rows of books and stacks of vinyl albums and all these people browsing: it reminds me of a long time ago when my dad was around—like, mentally speaking—and he would take me to the Northridge Mall on Sundays and let me roam around the bookstore there. Gwen was too little, and my mom was always working, even then, so the outings were always just him and me; we would spend hours together, not talking, at peace, lost in our separate worlds. Those are some of the last decent memories I have of my father.
I wander through a door and into a maze of bookshelves and then through this awesome little tunnel that’s built out of books. Beyond that, there’s another door, and I’m about to walk through when a hand grasps my arm. I’ve been so lost in my own thoughts that I jump in surprise and almost knock over a bunch of stacked books.
I turn back to see if May is as impressed as I am but she’s stark white—almost as bad as she was at the bar. And here I am, nerding out, ignoring her.
Great job, Zach. Way to show this girl you aren’t a jerk.
“Are you okay?” My voice cracks on the word okay, my worry seeping through.
She shakes her head. She looks like she might cry. Her face is crumpling, the bravery that she forced into it on our walk over from the club slipping.
“Shit. Are you okay?” I’m trying to figure out what to do. May pulls on the sleeve of my shirt and points behind her, toward the exit. Obviously we should leave this small, cramped space. Obviously. I’m an idiot.
I take her arm and her body steadies a little. We trace our way back through the tunnel and the maze and out into the main area, with its open spaces and high ceilings. I lead her over to a corner far away from the other shoppers, and she slides down the wall onto the floor. Her breathing is heavy. She lowers her head between her legs, elbows propped on her thighs.
Her back rises and falls, and it sounds like she’s gasping for air. She needs to calm down or she’s going to hyperventilate. I sit down next to her at a total loss, before I realize that doing pretty much anything is better than nothing. I pull her to me and stroke her hair like I do Gwenie’s when she wakes up from a nightmare in the middle of the night.
We sit like that for a few minutes, silent, and May’s breathing slows. I lean my head back against the wall and wonder if this is all my fault.
“I’m so sorry.” Her eyes squeeze together tight, and her voice sounds small and raspy. Most of her hair drapes around her head like a curtain, but some of it’s caught behind her ear, so I can still see part of her face. She looks so young. Not like someone old enough to have gone through the shit that she did.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” She chews on her bottom lip. “It’s just…I have this thing with small spaces. I don’t know. I never used to, but now I can’t stand the feeling…it’s like being trapped.”
I don’t know what to say. It’s like when Conor’s uncle, who he was super close to when we were little, died in a horrible motorcycle accident and all I could do was mumble Sorry, man to him. So ineffective. So useless. Story of my life.
I clear my throat. “Is that because…because…” I trail off.
She ducks her head. “Yeah. That day…I was in the closet forever. I don’t even know how long I was in there. It was so small and so dark, and all I could hear were booms and screams, and I was so sure that any second