Two Birds, One Stone

24. Fanning Flames

My eyes snapped to the door the moment I heard the knob begin to turn. The effect was immediate -- my breathing stopped, trapped in my throat, and my heart started beating so hard, it broke from its hold and plummeted to my gut. In the span of one measly second -- if it even was that long -- a bead of sweat broke out on my forehead and iron hands twisted my stomach into a sickening knot.

     Then that one measly second was over. The doorknob paused mid-turn, and my brother's voice floated through the wall. "It's me. It's Jacob."

     My heart stopped racing, and my stomach stopped churning, and I could breathe again.

     I hadn't slept more than two hours the night before. Two hours broken into short increments, intervals of sleep between shocks of restlessness and nausea and panic. Eventually, I had given up on rest and attempted to push myself out of bed, only to sink back down as if an anvil had been dropped onto my chest when I realized what awaited me beyond my bedroom door. The thought of facing my parents, of seeing their faces when I walked into the living room, had been enough to send me spiraling. Enough to stomp on the broken pieces last night had left behind.

     Leaving my room wasn't an option. So I called Jacob.

     He opened the door just enough to slip inside. In his hands he held a glass of water, a protein bar, and a banana.

    "I know you said you weren't hungry, but . . ." he handed me the glass and set the food on my nightstand. I took it with quivering hands and dipped my head; a nod was about all I could give him. It was a struggle to raise the water to my lips. I hated the way my hands always shook when I was anxious. There was nothing weaker, daintier, than having shaky hands. They were the trademark of every damsel in distress, every helpless child. People always noticed shaky hands, always saw them as a pitiable sign of fragility. I saw them as a pitiable sign of fragility. I noticed the ripples in the glass of water and saw just how fucking delicate I was.

     Jacob eased himself onto the edge of my bed. His discomfort was so clear, it almost glowed in the early-morning darkness. It almost had its own color.

     We had gotten somewhere last night, somewhere we hadn't been in a very long time. Maybe ever. But I could feel the distance between us, too old and too stubborn to shrink after one night, not just internal but physical, blatant in the way he sat himself at the edge of the bed and pulled his legs close and made himself smaller. Cutting that distance would take time.

     But we didn't have very much time. In a few months, I would move away, go live with Stevie. Her roommate would graduate this year and move away (she was getting her masters in California), and I would take the empty room in Stevie's apartment. Jacob and I couldn't make the leaps and bounds we needed in such a short time. Especially not when I couldn't even drink a fucking cup of water without nearly dropping the glass.

    "I'm gonna be sick," I muttered, voice like sandpaper. It hurt to talk. My dry lips burned with the effort. My throat seemed to cave inward, like it was trying to shut me up, and I let it.

     Jacob slipped away wordlessly. He came back -- he made sure to say his name before he touched the door this time -- with a plastic bucket in his hands. Dad liked to use it when he mopped.

     "Don't puke on the floor," was all Jacob said as he set the bucket down at my bedside. I nodded again, and finally took a sip of my water. It stung like rubbing alcohol on an open wound.

     He didn't say anything for a while. His discomfort faded to a dull shine as the sun came up behind my closed curtains. His lips were red from chewing on them too much.