“You always go for a run during a party?”
“I do.” I nodded. “I’m in training.”
“For ball gown racing?”
“Yes, it’s a very obscure event. But I’m ranked.” I was being ridiculous. The nerves were making me ridiculous, and I was only ever ridiculous with my sister.
“National or international?” Oh, he was playing along. It made me want to cry for missing my sister.
“International, of course.”
My feet were cold and naked in the grass, so I put on the shoes.
“What areyoudoing out here?” I asked.
“I haven’t been invited inside yet.”
“Really?”
“No.”
That did make me laugh. I liked this shadow Irishman with the quick wit, and maybe it was the grass I could still feel between my toes or that my world was coming down around me in ways I couldn’t stop, but the truth just came out of me.
“Adolescent on-set schizophrenia. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I’m... everything.”
It was wild to say that out loud. We never talked about it. We never gave the words air or sound. Or light. They lived in shadows, dark and unsaid. Alone and festering.
From the shadows he held a flask. “Here. You look like you could use a drink.”
“I shouldn’t,” I said. I needed to be clear. Sharp. Tonight was like throwing myself into a sea of piranhas. For the rest of my life.
“Your hands are shaking.”
Honestly, I couldn’t see him. At all. The glow of that cigarette, the gleam off the flask and the white of his shirt at his wrist. He had nice hands. A jagged scar ran along the side of his thumb down to his wrist.
“What happened?” I asked, and I couldn’t believe it myself, but I touched his hand. My fingertip brushed the raised pink skin of the scar. The insanity of that made me light-headed, and I quickly took the flask. I cupped it in my cold shaking fingers like a flame.
“Jumped out a window,” he said, flexing his fingers out wide and then curling them into a fist. “My hand got caught on an eaves-shoot. Tore it open, like.”
“Why’d you jump out a window?”
“Because someone who wanted to hurt me was coming in the door.” He said it like a joke.
I took a sip from the flask. The booze burned down my throat and exploded in warmth in my belly, and I gasped. Another sip and the same effect until I could feel my feet and my fingers. Another sip, and my face was warm. Yep. This was what a person needed for a few minutes before jumping into the pool of piranhas. To feel alive. Warm. Bloody and real.
And another sip, the flask lighter in my hand.
“Slow down there,” he said and took the flask from me. His fingers didn’t touch mine, but I could still feel the heat of them. “I reckon you haven’t eaten.”
“That,” I said, “is a fair point.” When was the last time I’d eaten? Last night? Two days ago? I couldn’t remember being hungry or full. It felt like I was very tiny inside of my body.
From the shadows around him came one of the china plates from inside. There was cheese there. Little quiches. Asparagus in prosciutto. “Have something,” he offered.
“What else have you got over there?” I joked.
“You probably don’t want to know. But if you’re hungry.” The plate came closer. I reached for a piece of cheese but in the end didn’t touch it. My stomach was in knots.
“No, thank you,” I said.