Whoa.
My thoughts screech to a halt as I realize, with absolute horror, where they’ve gone.Wayout of bounds. Out of bounds, the wrong way down a one-way street, barreling toward a dead end.
We could turn it into a through street, my absurd, out-of-control brain whispers, and I shake my head, giving my cheeks a few sharp pats.
India quirks her brow at me.
“Nothing,” I say quickly. I clear my throat a few times, but it doesn’t seem to help. “Nothing. Sorry.” I jerk my chin at the little table in the corner. “Sit.”
She shrugs and then deposits herself in one of my spindly chairs with ease, plopping down and continuing to look around my kitchen. “Are you cooking for me?” she says.
“Not today.”
“Next time?” she says, straightening up hopefully.
I hesitate for only a second before answering. “Sure. Next time I’ll cook for you. Now close your eyes.”
She does as I ask, and I pull the little cake out of the shopping bag. It’s the only carrot cake they had, a miniature one I could probably eat in one sitting, but I grab two forks from my utensil drawer and then go to the table.
I seat myself next to India and set the cake gently down. “Okay,” I say. “Open.”
Her lids flutter open, landing on the cake in front of her. Her eyes widen, and my lips tug into a satisfied smile—she’s genuinely surprised.
“It’s a carrot cake,” she says in a small voice, her gaze swinging up to meet mine.
But my smile disappears as those wide eyes fill with tears.
“Oh,” I say quickly, sitting up straight. “No?—”
But it’s too late. One tear slips down her cheek, and then another, and then?—
“All right,” I say as she bursts into tears. My initial concern fades into something warm, low-burning embers deep inside. I chuckle, leaning closer to pat her back, because she clearly needs to cry right now. “All right. You’re okay. You’re safe. Just get it all out.”
She slumps forward, her forehead resting on the tabletop with a thump as her shoulders heave, and for probably thirty seconds she just sobs while I rub her back.
“I thought I was going to die,” she says when she finally speaks, the words muffled.
“I know,” I say, answering on autopilot as I continue to pat her back. “But you didn’t. You’re just fine.”
“And it was so scary?—”
“I know,” I repeat, even though I’m not totally certain what she’s talking about now. So I try to tell her what she needs to hear. “It must have been really scary.”
“And ithurt,and I felt so stupid and so mad at myself?—”
Ah. I think she’s talking about the motorcycle accident. Something twinges behind my sternum, the desire to pull her close and tell her everything is okay.
But I don’t. “You’re allowed to be upset,” I say instead. “Get it all out.”
“And I love—I love Betsy,” she goes on. Her voice is barely understandable now, but something about the heaving of her shoulders and her broken words tells me that she’s been holding these tears in for too long.
“I know,” I say. I rub her back some more. “She’s a great bike. But you can take a break if you need to.”
“And I thought—I thought—” She stutters for breath, and then her tears renew. “I thought I killed that guy!”
“I know,” I say. “But he’s just fine.”
Her sobs are subsiding now, and I hear a little hiccup when she talks again. “He was really tall and he looked really scary?—”