Page 44 of Death, Interrupted

“But my eyes are green.”

His brows pulled tighter. “No, they’re grey…” He leaned in, but not too close, still following my rule. “I swear they’re grey.”

“No, they’re green,” I said again, feeling an amused smile tugging at my lips. “It says so on my passport.”

He watched me, trying to decide if I was messing with him. Then his eyes widened, and the same realization I’d had two nights ago registered on his face. “No fucking way. Am I colorblind?”

His expression was pure shock, and I felt bad for him. For a second, he looked genuinely worried, as if maybe he’d been complimenting the wrong person all along.

“Wait, are you sure?” he blurted, squinting at me like I might be tricking him. “Because I swear they’re—” He stopped and blinked rapidly. “Okay, just…lean into the light for a second.”

I laughed softly, tilting my face toward the lamp. He squinted harder, then pulled his own phone out and opened the camera app.

“Are you taking a picture of my eyeball?”

“Scientific evidence,” he said, dead serious. “For the record.”

“You’re ridiculous,” I laughed, looking at his phone when he lowered it. “Yes, that’s definitely green.”

“That’s grey,” he said, not sounding too convinced now.

“You know, you may be colorblind.”

He shook his head, not wanting to believe it. “Wait, do you think I am? I mean, that would explain why people at the store look at me funny when I tell them the celery looks spoiled.” He looked genuinely concerned, which only made me laugh harder.

This felt good. He was making me laugh and think about anything but the panic attacks I had in the past two days.

He groaned, rubbing his forehead. “Maybe I should get tested or something. Like, is there a colorblind quiz online?”

I giggled. “Pretty sure there is. Want to take it together?”

He hesitated, then broke into a reluctant smile. “Sure. But I still think you have the most beautiful eyes. Grey or not.”

“Thank you,” I said, my smile gentle.

It was then that I realized I needed him to stick around.

We finished eating, and I stood up to help Sly clear the table. I didn’t want him handling it all alone after he’d done so much already.

Back on the couch, I let out a long sigh, and the need to say more finally rose inside of me.

I hesitated, then asked, “Sly, can I tell you about the attacks?”

Something changed in his face, and for a second, I thought he didn’t realize how much it meant that I was choosing to talk to him. He hadn’t owed me anything that night. He could’ve left after the accident, he could’ve kept his distance after the grocery store, but he’d stayed, never pushing or forcing me to explain, and that alone made it easier.

“Of course,” he said, and his smile was small and steady. “I’ll listen.”

“Okay.” I pressed my lips together, trying to balance the sudden rush of words, and then I started, because once I began, the sentences came easier than I expected, and I told him everything that had been heavy in my chest.

“There isn’t one thing that sets them off,” I said, looking down at my hands because it felt safer than looking at his face. “They come out of nowhere. One hits and then another follows. Like the last two days. I’d get a few hours where I thought I was fine and then it would start again, over and over.”

I looked at him again and saw that he wanted to say something, so I waited and let him speak.

“How many in the past two days?” he asked. His voice was soft and careful.

“Maybe five or six,” I said. “I stopped counting after three. Sometimes I can’t feel my body, and sometimes I black out if it gets bad. It’s like my body quits on me.”

Sympathy flashed in his eyes, mixed with recognition. I hated that he knew what it felt like.