| Chapter Five ~ Him |

Dr. Foster didn't always drive to work. Sometimes, she took a cab, but mostly, she took the subway. This was one of those times, and I won't lie, I loved her for it. The noise, the movement, the music. All of which helped me get out of my head and remain where I was supposed to be. New York City, in the present, alongside her. And although during our journey we remained silent, one could always count on the city to provide ambiance. It wasn't until we reached her street that my breathing started to get a bit heavy and I began to struggle again.

We walked in and she immediately went for the kitchen while I lagged behind.

"Can I make you something?" She asked.

Bear in mind this was a woman whose idea of cooking meant calling somewhere and waiting for it to be delivered. No apps, mind you. She actually called the restaurants she liked and had them bring her whatever she wanted.

I shook my head, going for a faint smile I absolutely did not manage to achieve. "I'm okay,"

"Thomas," she said, and I was instantly reminded of one of our sessions. "At least let me make you some coffee,"

"Alright. Coffee." I shrugged.

"Lovely!" She said, rather proud.

I kept walking around. At first, checking the artwork—by that I mean facing the artwork, not properly taking any of it in. Except for Dante. There's no way of missing Dante. But then I got dangerously close to the sofa and backed away at once.

"Why don't you sit down?" She suggested, as she took two cups and waited for the coffee-maker to turn on.

"Here?" I scoffed. "No, thank you."

She chuckled. "Why not?"

"I feel I'd be awfully close to a session," I said. "And I don't need you slipping into doctor-mode on me,"

"Maybe that would help," she said.

"I've got Lott for that," I told her, and as I said, I was reminded of my appointment. "Holy shit, I missed Lott." I slapped my forehead.

"I'm sure she'll understand," she was quick to say. "Go on, you have nothing to worry about. You can sit. I promise I won't slip into doctor-mode,"

"You say that, but what if that's a trap?" I turned to her, snapping my fingers and winking.

"Come to the kitchen, then," she said. "I analyze no one in the kitchen."

So I did. Not yet quite convinced, just...tired.

"This is good," I said, taking a sip of my Americano.

She sat across from me in the isle that was in the middle of the kitchen.

"Why do you think she did it?" She asked, true to her word.

Had she decided to analyze me, it would've taken Dr. Foster ages to dance around the subject until finally making me ask and answer the question for her.

"I dunno," I shrugged, going silent for a bit. "We hadn't talked in a while," I shook my head. "God, we hadn't talked in too long a while,"

"Why not?"

"It got to be too much for her, I think,"

"What did?"

"Me?" I tried smiling. "Seeing me,"

"That's—"

"—absolutely okay," I finished her sentence.

It made for her to go silent for the moments that followed.

"Who do we need to call? Except for her parents. They have already been notified," she said.

"I'm sure they'll call the rest of the family," I shrugged. "And anyone else who matters,"

"Will they call you?" She narrowed her eyes, breaking it. Her word, I mean.

"Doubt it," I said, avoiding her gaze.

"What about your parents? She was close to your mom, wasn't she?"

"Yeah, but I'm not, so..."

"And him?" She turned serious. "Did you tell him yet?"

I shook my head.

"Why not?" She asked.

"I can't," I simply told her. "Not yet,"

"He won't like that," she pointed out.

"He'll adjust," I quickly said. "He needs to focus, and I...I need to focus,"

"Focus on what?"

"Who?"

"You," she quickly said. "I know why he needs focus,"

"Being here," I said. "Actually being here,"

"So you won't call him? What about your friends?"

"I'm gonna," I said. "They need to know. I just...I don't want to. Not yet,"

"Why not?"

"When I call them, they'll want to come over,"

"Is that bad?"

"No, not bad. It's just...a lot. Right now,"

"Stay here then," she offered.

"Thanks, but I—I think I'm gonna go. I feel like walking," I said. "I want to be alone for a while."

"Oh, Thomas that's just..." she said, taking her glasses off, lowering her head and rubbing her eyes with either hand.

"What?"

"It's hard not to analyze someone begging to be analyzed,"

I scoffed. "You'll adjust," I said, earning myself a look I hadn't seen in quite a while.

"I'm going to tell everyone. And him," I assured her. "And...I'm doing okay," I said.

She instantly raised a single brow.

"Fine, that's a lie, I'm not okay," I fell victim of The Stare again. "But I'm trying here, Alicia," I said. "You don't have to worry,"

"I do worry," she simply said, looking me dead in the eyes.

"Well, there's no need," I said, getting up and going to the sink to wash my cup.

I had a feeling she watched me the entire time—but I didn't dare turn around. When I did, once I'd finished with the cup and some other dishes, she got up and walked me to the front door.

"I'm adding tonight to the list of things I can't ever properly thank you for, you know?" I told her, as she opened the door.

"You still have lists?" She asked, unable to hide a smile.

I raised both brows, turned around and left, slowly walking along the lamplit streets for as long as I felt was necessary.

I had no idea how long it took. It was late, I know that. I also know ever since I'd arrived at St Yve's, for all the minutes and hours that followed, it felt as though there was a brick strapped to my chest by some sort of noose or belt, which was consistently being tightened, pushing it harder and harder against my skin. So I had to walk slowly, afraid to lose my breath before making it to the apartment.

About five blocks away, I texted Jonas, asking him to be the one to tell everyone but Noah. He called me instantly and, though I watched the phone shining on my hand for a few seconds, I finally picked up.

"What do you need?" He quickly asked.

It took me forever to reply.

"Home," I finally said. "Just home. You?"

"To understand," he said.

I didn't say anything after that for almost an entire block.

"Tommy?"

"Yeah?"

"Nothing," he said. "This is just..."

I hated that I couldn't speak.

"Fuck!" He eventually exclaimed. I heard a loud bang as well, so I'm pretty sure he had hit something.

"What the fuck did you just do?"

"Great, now I'm bleeding,"

"Bleeding?"

"I...punched the wall," he said. "It's nothing,"

"Nothing?" I repeated.

"Is this really happening, Tommy?" He asked, so horribly helpless.

We talked for a few minutes, and then hung up when he said he was going to let everyone know. After a few more blocks, and just as I was about to walk into the building, my phone lit up again. I paid no attention to it, though.

The apartment was mostly dark when I got in, except for a light that shone in the kitchen.

"Babe, is that you?" Ethan called out the moment I closed the door.

I didn't answer. I was so lightheaded...and hearing him somehow made it worse, which only confused me more. I couldn't understand it.

"I think I actually managed to make risotto!" he said, so very proudly. "Well, maybe. I still need a minute or two to be sure," he corrected himself.

I slowly made my way through the living room, almost certain I was going to faint.

"Not only that, but guess who won?" He continued, as I watched him put the lid over the pan and dry his hands before walking over. "Okay, Mandi did, but I found the precedent she used for a small part of the case, so technically—"

He stopped the very moment he saw me—standing in-between the light that came from the kitchen, and all the darkness I'd brought in with me.

I could barely face him. My chest felt as though it was about to burst.

"Babe?" He frowned.

All I could do was look down at the line dividing us.

"Tom, what is it?"

It wasn't the words. It wasn't how he said them, either. It was just him, and all that he was.

He took a step toward me, grabbing me by the hand and pulling on it, gently. "What's wrong?"

He started sounding scared, it was horrible.

"Em—Emma," I all but whispered.

"Emma?" He repeated, tilting his head and trying to meet my gaze. "What about her?"

"She's..." I began, quietly. "She died," I finally looked up at him. "She just...she fucking died, Ethan,"

There was no more air in me. I had nothing left.

"Wait...what?" He asked, so quiet.

I felt as though I would dissolve into a pile of ashes, right then and there.

"Oh, no..." he softly said.

I started shaking my head and, for some reason, I didn't notice I couldn't stop.

So he put his arms around me and held me, so tight.

I grabbed his shirt and started pulling on the back of it. I don't know where or how I got the strength to do it, but it felt as though I was about to rip it apart.

I just needed to be close.

"I got you," he said. "I'm here,"

And he kept on saying it, as he refused to let me go.

I didn't cry. I didn't speak after that, either—and he didn't force me, he never had. We just stood there as he held me, and for the first time that entire day, time didn't seem to matter. It actually felt as though it had slowed, somehow, with everything else around us coming to a halt.

I did my very best to catalog that moment in a way as to make sure I would never lose it. It was something I did all the time, of course, but that night felt it different, more so than usual. That moment I needed to keep.

Eventually, I was somehow able to take the deepest of breaths.

Ethan holding me freed me from my Super 8. From all the memories and flashes that insisted on making themselves known, mixing, uninvited, with the present. He pushed it all away. He always pushed it away.

And the brick? All that pressure? It was gone, the very moment I could feel his heartbeat. Looking back I think that's what I needed.

Him.