21. Phoebe
21
PHOEBE
M y heart thumps against my ribs with all the force of a hammer breaking down a wall. My stomach churns, fueled by fear and a creeping sense of dread.
“What are we doing?” I whisper, trembling.
Vapas moves one hand to the back of my head while his other hand is on the small of my back. The pressure is comforting.
“Surviving,” he says, every bit as soft as I spoke.
I cling to him and I think he might be clinging to me too. Moments slip past and no matter how much I don’t want this moment to end this sense of impending danger builds until I finally let go.
I dry my eyes on my sleeve, clear my throat, then look at the mess the quake left. Stuff is scattered across the kitchen floor. Cabinet doors drift lazily back and forth like some kind of weird metaphor for the way I feel.
Several candles that normally illuminate the home and give off a warm and cozy light have fallen. Fortunately most everything is made of stone, not wood, so the flames went out instead of creating more problems.
“We should…” I wave my hand around.
“Yes,” Vapas agrees.
Good job, Phoebs, avoid the real questions. Ignore what you feel. What we were… what we almost…
Nausea hits so fast it makes me dizzy and I retch. Unsure if I’m about to be sick I run to the small closet bathroom, dropping to my knees in front of the toilet. It passes as fast as it hit with nothing more untoward. I wait a moment, crouched on the floor, to make sure it’s not going to return.
When I get up and turn around Vapas is right there and the worry on his face is unmistakable.
“Nothing,” I say, cheeks burning. His frown deepens. “I’m fine. I promise.”
His large frame is imposing and just for an instant fear flutters through my brain causing a cool sweat to bead on my skin. I’m trapped, again. Unwilling, not wanting this, but no way out. I raise a hand to push him aside, but before I touch him he takes a big step back.
Surprise leaves me staring, unsure what to do now. That simple gesture, his awareness that he was creating an effect on me…
Kind. Understanding.
Is this not what love is supposed to be? Knowing and understanding the person you care about?
Vapas clears his throat, breaking the silence.
“Let’s start with the candles. Wouldn’t want a surprise blaze.”
His tone is light, but his words anchor me, pulling me back from the dark swirl in my head. I nod, grateful for the excuse to move, to do something. My legs are shaky, but I follow him into the main room.
He picks up a fallen candle with careful and deliberate movements, as though it’s made of glass instead of wax. The muscles in his arms ripple, and I quickly look away, the memory of him holding me, being ready to give myself to him burning bright. Warmth suffuses my skin.
I crouch and pick up a candle, its wick is burned down to a stub. The motion steadies me somehow.
“These things burn too fast,” I mutter, more to myself than him.
“They weren’t made to last,” he says, straightening and placing his candle back on the shelf. “But neither were they meant to be left alone.”
I glance at him, narrowing my eyes.
“Are we still talking about candles?”
A faint smile tugs at one corner of his mouth. “Maybe.”
I let out a short laugh, a surprisingly nervous sound.
“Well, we’re lucky they didn’t set the place on fire.”
“Perhaps,” he agrees, his gaze flicking to me as he kneels to pick up a small, overturned pot. “But maybe we’re not so lucky? Fire leaves its marks, even when it’s out.”
My breath catches. He’s not just talking about the quake, the mess, or the candles. The weight of his words presses against my chest.
“No,” I whisper, not looking at him. “We’re not.”
For a few moments, the only sounds are the scrape of stone and metal as we work. I lift one of the kitchen chairs that toppled over. Its backrest is chipped and it wobbles slightly when I set it down.
“Some things can be fixed,” Vapas says, suddenly behind me, his voice quiet but firm. “Even if they’re never quite the same.”
I turn into him. He’s close, so close and his warm eyes reflect the flickering light of the candles. He not only dominates the space, it’s as if he takes up all the oxygen too.
“Do you… believe that?” I ask, hating the tremor in my voice. “That things can be fixed?”
He doesn’t answer immediately, but instead takes a step back. He rubs his chin in a thoughtful gesture, inhales deeply and then exhales heavily.
“I have to. Otherwise…” he trails off frowning deeply. He raises and drops his hands in that way which has become familiar. “If not, what’s the point of surviving?”
His words hit like a punch to the gut. Surviving. That’s what I’ve been doing—just surviving. Standing here, surrounded by the mess of the quake, with him, I wonder for the first time if surviving is enough.
“I don’t know if I can,” I admit, my voice barely more than a whisper.
Again he doesn’t speak immediately. I think in anyone else, I would find that an annoying trait, but with him I like it. He isn’t just saying the first thing that pops in his head, he’s giving thought to what I’ve said. Considering his answer before blurting something out.
“Then let me help,” he says simply.
I shake my head, stepping away and pretending to inspect a crack in the wall.
“I don’t even know how to let someone do that.”
“Start small,” he says, moving closer and crouching at my side. His presence is steady, grounding. “Like this.”
He picks up a shattered plate, its edges jagged. For a moment, he just holds it, turning it over in his hands. Then he sets it aside gently, as though even broken things deserve care.
“You don’t have to fix everything all at once,” he says. “Sometimes, just cleaning up is enough. For the moment.”
I stare into his eyes while his words settle deep inside me.
“Cleaning up,” I echo.
He nods. “One piece at a time.”
We work in silence after that and the home slowly returns to its normal state of order. It’s not perfect—there are cracks, broken pieces, and scars that won’t go away. But it’s better.
And maybe, just maybe, so am I.