Alive. She wishes she felt that way. She’s trembling; her entire body feels stripped down to its bones.
Stretching an arm out, she gestures at the pitcher of water on the nightstand. Her mouth is dry, parched. “Can I—”
Seth’s already in motion, understanding what she wants. “Here.” He holds the cup for her, letting her sip from the straw. Her hands are shaking so bad she doesn’t trust herself not to spill it.
The water releases the words that have lodged in her throat. Out they tumble, like dice. “I thought I was his wife. Roy. He told me that. I believed it.” She looks at Seth, whose face has grown dark and dangerous and she knows something is wrong. “He lied, didn’t he? That fucker. He’s not my husband.”
“No,” Seth says, anger curling his fists, his voice. “He ain’t.”
Despair settles over Sal at the weight of Seth’s words. She really was a prisoner. Roy kept her there. Kept her weak and sick and helpless in their shitty shotgun shack.
Oh, sure, they had a miserable fucked-up marriage, Sal hating him on the daily, but she never thought that it was all a lie. That the nightmare she was living wasn’t hers—and never had been.
She can’t breathe.
She shakes her head in denial as air refuses to push through her lungs. Then she’s panicking, her throat closing up, her body curling forward into itself as she strains for a breath.
“Hey, hey, hey ... ”
Seth moves quick to sit on the side of the bed. Sal’s hands fly up to grip his shoulders. Seth gently, yet firmly, takes her face in his hands. He keeps his blue eyes locked on her face. “Breathe, Sal. Breathe. Fucking take a breath. You got this.” He nods and slowly, so slowly, she nods back, following his lead, his breathing. “Because we’ve got you.”
For a long moment, Sal thinks she will die. Then she takes a gasp of air and bursts into tears.