In. Out. In. Out.
She’s giving me a pattern. A rhythm. Something to follow.
I try. Fail. Try again.
“There you go.” Her thumbs stroke my cheekbones. Four strokes on the left. Four on the right. Even. Balanced.
Does she know she’s doing that? Does she know I need the pattern?
“That’s it. Just breathe.”
In for four counts. Out for four counts.
She’s matching her breathing to mine. Or I’m matching mine to hers. I can’t tell anymore.
But it’s working.
The counting comes back. The patterns reassert. The systems reboot.
Four breaths. Eight breaths. Twelve breaths.
My lungs remember how to work. The vise around my chest loosens incrementally.
“I’m sorry,” I manage. “I don’t know why?—”
Actually, I do know why.
Because I’ve been counting down to losing Harper the same way I counted down the days of Mom’s chemo treatments.
Because I’ve been trying to control this the same way I tried to control whether Mom lived or died.
Because no amount of rules or checking or patterns can stop the people I love from leaving.
And my brain is finally, catastrophically realizing that.
“Don’t you dare apologize.” Her voice is fierce. “You’ve been carrying this shit alone for how long?”
“Since I was twelve.”
“Fuck.” She shifts closer, throwing her arms around my neck and hugging me across the central panel. “That’s too fucking long, Caleb.”
A semi blows past, rocking the car slightly. Neither of us moves.
“You can’t control something like that,” Harper says quietly. “You know that, right? No amount of rules or perfection or getting into Harvard is going to change what happened to your mom. Or what… might happen. I mean, I’m sure she’s going to keep being fine, but still. Babe. That’s not yours to carry.”
The truth of it sits heavy in the space between us.
“So what do I do?” My voice cracks. “If I can’t fix it, what the hell have I been doing all thistime?”
“Surviving.” She says it simply. Like it’s obvious. “You’ve been surviving, Caleb. That’s not nothing.”
“But—”
“But nothing.” Her hands are still on my face, grounding me. “You were twelve years old and terrified of losing your mom. So you made yourself into someone who could never fuck up, never lose control, and never give her one more thing to worry about. That’s not stupid. That’s—” Her voice catches. “That’s actually kind of heroic, you fucking nerd.”
A laugh surprises me. It’s watery and weak, but it’s real.
“There he is.” She smiles, soft and devastating. “There’s my Boy Scout.”