Page 10 of Praying for Rain

Wes lifts his shoulders in a half-assed shrug as the pouch between his lips flattens to nothing.

“How are you gonna survive something if you don’t even know what it is?”

Another shrug. Another wrapper hits the ground.

“Been doin’ it my whole life.” Wes’s voice is soft again, and this time, his eyes don’t meet mine when he speaks.

Something inside of me twists at his admission, and I lower my voice to match his. “So, you’re like, some kind of survivalist then?”

“Sure.” The word comes out harsh and flat, like he doesn’t want to talk about it.

That’s fine with me. I’m an expert at not talking about shit. Or dealing with it at all if I don’t have to.

I lean back against the railing and yelp as the items he shoved down my shirt earlier clang against the yellow metal poles. The corner of one package stabs me in the spine while the corner of another pokes me in the ass through my pajama bottoms. “Ow! God! Damn!”

With a huff, I turn around so that my back is toward him and untuck my tank top, letting all of his precious supplies fall into his lap. Wes chuckles softly, and I look at him over my shoulder.

Big mistake.

The man in the Hawaiian shirt is smiling down at the tools I just dumped on him like it’s Christmas morning. His lashes are long and dark against his high cheekbones, a lock of soft brown hair has fallen out from behind his ear, and all I want to do is crawl into his lap so that maybe he’ll look at me the same way.

But he won’t because, unlike that flashlight, pocketknife, pack of lighters, and can opener, I’m a tool that’s already served its purpose. Wes got his food, and any minute, he’s going to toss me aside like all those wrappers on the ground below us.

Through the railing behind Wes, my eyes catch movement on the other side of the playground. An older couple just arrived, and they’re each pushing a small child on a swing. The kids are giggling and kicking their feet, completely oblivious to the garbage and sadness all around them, but their parents’ vacant, numb, washed-out stares say it all.

They’re going to watch each other die in three days, and the only thing they can do about it is stay high and try not to cry in front of the kids.

I tear my eyes away from their pain, as all of mine begins to rise to the surface. Every punch and kick I took this morning makes itself known. The rejection I know is coming—when Wes announces that he doesn’t need me anymore—burns like fire beneath my skin. Every loss I’ve suffered and the ones I know are coming pound against my skull, demanding to be acknowledged. I feel it all and all at once.

I grab my hoodie pocket, desperate for relief, but it’s empty. Of course.

Because Wes stole my pills to buy these fucking groceries.

Turning back around, I shove my hands into my windblown hair and try to catch my breath, but I can’t. I can’t breathe. I can’t get my fingers through the tangled strands. And I can’t believe I was stupid enough to let this guy take the only thing I had that would make this pain go away. I yank harder. Breathe harder. I rock back and forth, trying to soothe myself, but nothing’s working.

“Hey … you okay?”

“No!” I shout, but I only hear it in my mind. My lungs are expanding and contracting—I can feel it—but the air’s not getting in.

The air’s not getting in!

“Rainbow …”

“Rain!” I snap, clutching the sides of my head.

“Rainbow,” a sweet voice calls in my head. “Rainbow, baby, time to come inside …”

The image of a beautiful, smiling woman with dark blonde hair flashes behind my eyes before my flailing consciousness bats it away.

No!

“Rain …” Wes’s voice is measured and calm.

He’s talking to me like I’m a caged animal, so I behave like one.

I fucking run.

Wes

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