The Valley and the Flood by Rebecca Mahoney (10 best books of all time TXT) 📗

it’s going, right? I’m not eighteen until January but—”

“That won’t matter.” He smiles, warm even back then. I didn’t expect warmth that first time. It caught me off guard. “These sessions are confidential, Rose. There are very few circumstances where I can share what you tell me here. Very few.”

Standing here, outside myself and outside my own head, I can tell that I know he’s trying to reassure me. And I can see where I’ve snagged onto those last few words. “What circumstances?”

“Ah, well,” he says. “If you could just turn the page—”

“Rose?”

That one was in the present. Present Maurice, who says my name like it’s not the first time he’s had to in the last few seconds. “Sorry,” I say. “What?”

“Do you want to talk about why you left the Summers’?” he asks.

“I . . .” My mouth is dry. My throat is dry, all the way down. I remember now. I remember what was on the next page. I see the flicker of it on Past Rose’s face.

“I can disclose the contents of our sessions,” Past Maurice says, “if in my professional opinion, you pose a danger to yourself or others.”

Past Rose laughs. It’s a sharp little sound. “Oh, yeah,” she says. “I think I saw that on Law and Order.” She signs the form, indicating that she understands, and the session moves on. I can’t quite hear it anymore.

What you’re talking about, Flora had said, just four nights ago. That’s a serious condition. That’s . . .

Dangerous. And I knew she was right, didn’t I? I knew what has been waiting, all these months, to claw its way out. What I couldn’t contain anymore, back in that kitchen.

What the Flood saw in me.

“Rose,” Maurice says again. “Are you there?”

“I can’t,” I say. The hand holding the phone shakes so hard, I wonder if he can hear me. “I don’t—”

“Okay,” he says. His voice has changed again, like he’s soothing a skittish animal. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

“This wasn’t a good idea,” I say. “I shouldn’t—I—”

“Rose.” Distantly, I realize that for all of our sessions, this is the first time he’s heard me lose it. “Are you okay?”

“I have to go,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”

“Rose, wait—”

I hang up before he can finish. It’s not long before my phone buzzes again—Maurice, calling me back. I finally do what I should have done from the start: I throw it as hard as I can, like an insect, like a poisonous snake. I can hear it on the other side of the living room, still vibrating. I didn’t break it. Even with all my strength I didn’t break it.

Behind me, there’s a clatter. I don’t want to turn. I don’t want to see what it is. But my body twists on its own.

The blues and grays, the armchairs, the Past Me and Past Maurice are all gone. The living room is the way it should be. But beyond it, in the kitchen, I see something on the empty countertop. Shivering, like someone just put it down. A paring knife, just barely balanced on the edge of the tile.

“The Mockingbird said,” I say quietly. I can still hear my phone, buzzing behind me. “That you came to me looking for an answer. Is this the answer I gave you?”

My only response is the knife, still shivering.

I cross the living room and gingerly move across the kitchen floor. Nothing changes. This is the model house kitchen, not the Summers’. I don’t see myself, the Rose from four nights ago. And I don’t see him.

But the knife keeps wobbling, balancing. And I think I know what I’m meant to try.

I walk past the knife a little ways and to the other end of the kitchen. There’s no way to be exact, but I think this is just about the distance I would have been standing. And I swear, when I hit the right spot, I feel a shiver. Like I’m walking over my own grave.

And when I turn, there I am, standing in the Summers’ kitchen. Straight down the barrel of Nick Lansbury’s stare.

He grins. Close-lipped, crooked. “Hey, Colter.”

And I’m afraid. More than I’ve ever been.

But he’s not the one I’m afraid of anymore.

Not for a while now.

DECEMBER 27, FOUR NIGHTS AGO

NOTE TO SELF: They were right when they said he looks different. Not that you doubted it. It’s just not something you liked to think about. Nick Lansbury is the reason you’re here. You don’t want him to have the decency to look ashamed about it. Less complicated if he doesn’t.

But one thing hasn’t changed. There he is again, just like that night. Standing squarely in front of your exit.

He stares at you. You stare back. The dark circles under his eyes make him look older. He looks every bit the haunted soul people think he is now. It doesn’t make you feel better. It makes something in your throat burn.

“What are you doing here?” you manage to say.

The corner of his mouth twitches. “I was invited,” he says. And suddenly you’re very sure that he hasn’t changed that much after all.

You must look—you’re not sure how you look, but something must be clear to him, because he adds, “Flora asked me here. For the anniversary. For Gaby.”

The heat inside you pools into your chest and pumps out into your blood, out to your limbs and your fingers and your toes. It’s not like you haven’t seen him since the funeral. He’s in your grade now, repeating his senior year. But in the back of your mind you’re always aware of his movements, his schedule, the halls that will take you past him without ever locking eyes, and when you have to see him, you have time to brace for it.

This is how it feels when you don’t brace for it. This is, you think, how you’ve always felt. What you have been able to swallow.

It wasn’t his fault, you think, a last-ditch urge to stop feeling whatever you’re