Page 84 of Her Ex-Husband's Brother

It doesn’t matter what the trigger is.

What goes up must come down.

In an instant, all the elated, conquer-the-world energy inside me justcrashes.

Pop.

All the hundreds of possibilities and open doors in front of meslamshut.

I’m not Superman anymore.

I’m the scum of the earth.

And just so,sofucking sad.

I knew it was coming. I always know it’s coming. That it still has the ability to shock me every time makes the sadness even deeper and heavier.

Because the heights of possibility were so,sobright and beautiful and seemingly within reach.

And now seem more than a million light years away.

“August?” Lennon calls, a note of alarm in her voice, and it sounds muted like it’s coming through water.

It’s just the chemistry in my brain playing tricks on me.

Knowing so doesn’t help because everything slows down. My thoughts. Sounds and input.

Sometimes it feels like I’m suddenly swimming in a fish tank.

“Hey actually,” I manage, the formation of words suddenly difficult and clumsy to make with my mouth. “It’s been a really long, exhausting week. I just kinda want to crash tonight.”

Lennon frowns at me. “That’s not what I meant, August. Can we just not do labels yet, is all I meant.”

Every fresh word out of her mouth feels like another blow.

I wanna disappear to be the size of an ant on the cement beneath our feet. There’s a dim bulb of desire to explain that of course I understand.

I know she’s being entirely rational andsmart.

I know my brain is blowing this way out of proportion in a way that is magnificently embarrassing, along with my internal meltdown about it.

She’s asking for a boundary and I want to celebrate that with her, not make her feel bad in any way, shape, or form. It only makes me admire her more.

But at the moment, it’s literally not possible for any of that to get out of my mouth.

I’m stuffed full of cotton, the roller-coaster having suddenly bottomed-out in a way that is thelastthing she should have to deal with considering everything she’s been through lately.

It’s horrible and inexplicable and irrational and?—

Forming the sentences I managed a moment ago was done with monumental difficulty. When I’m at my lowest lows, which I can plunge without any notice when the balloon pops, I’m barely capable of communicating at all.

“Yeah. Totally agree,” I manage, and throw an arm around her shoulder for a reassuring squeeze before letting go again and aiming down the last block.

Just got to get to my truck before I really fucking collapse in on myself.

It’s only one of the reasons I’m so grateful my son is still just four years old, because he doesn’t mind the times I’m only capable of grunting and otherwise go mostly non-verbal.

Owen thinks it’s funny and spends the whole weekend giggling at “growl daddy.” And I spend the whole weekend hugging him tight and pretending it’s wrestling, another of his favorite activities. Dr. Delaney says that’s okay because of some attachment theory bullshit, that kids his age need lots of touch to feel secure. How do I tell him so do big kids my age?