Page 61 of A Not-So Holiday Paradise
Dark.
Dark…
* * *
“No,Molly—don’t get up. What do you need?” Beckett is kneeling on the floor next to the couch where I’m stretched out, but now he jumps to his feet, a blur of long limbs and tan skin.
“I need to change and get cleaned up,” I say. I don’t look at him; I can’t. I peed on his carpet. I had a seizure right in front of him. All I want right now is to run away.
Instead I press my palms to my warm cheeks, which I’m positive are flushed and pink with humiliation, and stare at the floor.
This is so much worse than the hives.
“Right,” Beckett says. From the corner of my eye I see him rub the back of his neck. “You have more clothes, yeah?”
I nod. “I bought some. They’re in that bag.” I point to the plastic bag on the floor by the bathroom door. “Can I have another pair of boxers though?”
I heard my mom say once that after you give birth, you lose all sense of modesty or shame about your body; having a seizure in front of Beckett seems to have had the same effect on me. I wet myself in front of him—there’s no point in being embarrassed about underwear.
I can sink no lower.
The hot prick of tears stings my eyes, and I blink a few times to dispel them.
“Yeah, hang on,” Beckett says. I can feel his eyes on me, but he doesn’t comment; he just disappears into his bedroom and returns not five seconds later with a pair of boxers, probably the first ones he could find. Then he grabs the shopping bag and returns to the couch.
He doesn’t want to leave me alone.
My cheeks burn hotter; my eyes well with tears again.
“You can stay,” I say as he hands me the boxers and the bag. I know he’s going to ask. “Just turn around, please.”
My voice sounds horrible—monotonous and dull, devoid of emotion or inflection. I sound like a zombie. But I don’t know how to make that stop, and right now I don’t care. My mind keeps coming up with new realizations, new ramifications, and a new awareness of what’s happened.
“I’ll probably need to hold onto you for support,” I say, prying the words out of my mouth. They’re sharp in my throat and bitter on my tongue, but if I don’t tell him, I risk falling over and having him turn around to see it. “The seizing usually makes my muscles shaky and then sore for a couple days.”
“Yeah, of course,” Beckett says immediately. He steps closer to the couch before turning around, giving me his back. “Am I close enough? Just grab on wherever you need to.”
“Thanks,” I say. I do the best I can to stand, but my legs shake enough that I end up clamping one hand around Beckett’s upper arm.
“Two years,” I murmur as I strip out of my shorts and the boxers I had on. I let them fall unceremoniously to the floor, my shame bunched tangibly around my ankles.
Beckett is silent for a second before he speaks. “It’s been two years since you had a seizure?” His posture is rigid, but he sounds normal enough.
“No,” I say. “Two years in the state of Florida that I have to be seizure-free before I can drive again. Although…” I bite my lip, thinking. “I think after six months I can apply for an exception to that. I’m well-controlled on my medication.” I sigh as I pull the new pair of boxers up—black with a pattern of red chili peppers, something I certainly would tease him about if the circumstances were different—and then follow with my new pair of shorts. “I’m done,” I say.
Since my dignity is already gone, I let myself fall back onto the couch in a tangled heap. Truthfully, as much as I hate just lying here, it feels like I’ve been through a full-body workout. My muscles are tired. Maybe this wouldn’t be happening if I exercised regularly, but that definitely doesn’t happen.
I walk past a yoga studio when I go to the bakery on Saturday mornings. Sometimes I peer in the window and think it might be nice to learn. Does that count?
I move clumsily back into a reclining position on the loveseat, letting my head rest on the arm of the couch. Then I close my eyes, mostly so I don’t have to look at Beckett.
“Molly.”
Hmm. Can I pretend I don’t hear him? That would be weird, right?
Yeah. It would be weird. Crap.
“Molly.”
