The floor is too cold. It's biting into my knees. It hurts. I'm breathing too fast, like I just ran, but I'm just... I'm just hitting the tile. My hand won't stop shaking. There's something wet under my palm. Grease? Fish? I don't know. My elbow gives out and I almost hit my face on the table leg.
I have to get up.
I can't breathe right. Something is wrong with my lungs. I can't get the air to go all the way down. It stays in my throat.
"Elara."
I jump. My teeth hit together—clack—and a sharp pain shoots up my jaw. That voice. It's too loud. It shouldn't be here.
Miller. My supervisor. But he's dead. No. He's right there. He has that mole by his lip. He looks pissed. Why is he pissed?
I scramble up. The room spins. The kitchen is just a blur of metal and humming. One light over the sink is flickering—snap, snap, snap—and it makes my head throb. The smell is everywhere. Old grease. Floor cleaner. It's making me sick.
My hand goes to my neck. Checking. Is it there? The burning? The—
Nothing. Just my pulse. It's slamming against my skin. I'm not dying. I'm in the kitchen.
My hand drops. It hits my stomach.
I stop.
It's firm. There's a weight there. It shouldn't be there yet. Or maybe it should. My brain is tangling up. I just felt the poison. I just felt the hospital bed.
"Elara! What are you doing on the floor?"
I jerk my hand away like I've been burned. "I slipped!"
I shouldn't have yelled. I sound like a liar. I didn't do anything. My heart is trying to kick its way out of my ribs.
Miller is staring at me. He looks like he wants me to just disappear. "Then get up. We're in the middle of service. Table seven needs the fish."
Service. Right. The fish.
I look at the clock. 11:42 PM.
The numbers are blurry. 11:42. I know this. This is the night. This is the night it happens.
I look at the calendar by the freezer. There's a blue circle. I drew that. I remember drawing it because I was happy. I was going to tell him.
I think I'm going to throw up.
"Move!" Miller barks.
I grab a plate. My fingers are weak. The ceramic is heavy. Too heavy. I'm tilting it—the sauce is running toward the edge. Stop it. Stop shaking. I use my thumb to catch a drip. My thumb is dirty. Why did I do that? That's disgusting.
I start walking toward the doors. My legs don't feel like mine. They're stiff. They don't move when I tell them to.
I'm alive. How am I alive? I remember the taste. It was bitter. Like metal.
I reach for the door, but I hear it.
Footsteps.
Heavy. Thud, thud, thud.
I stop. My back feels like ice. I know those boots. I know the way he walks. He's not supposed to be here. Not in the kitchen. Not now. It was supposed to be tomorrow.
I'm holding the fish and I can't move. My knuckles hurt.
"Elara."
His voice. It's lower than Miller's. It's steady. It makes my stomach turn over.
I turn around too fast. The plate wobbles. I almost dump it on his shoes.
Kael.
He's wearing that denim jacket. The cuffs are frayed. His hair is wet. Is it raining? I didn't notice if it was raining. He looks... he looks the same. He doesn't look like a man who just watched me die. Because I haven't died yet.
He's looking at my hands. He sees them shaking. I try to pull the plate against my side to hide it.
"You're late," he says.
Late? For what? The divorce?
"I wasn't—" I stop. I was going to say I wasn't ready. He doesn't care.
He's holding a piece of paper. It's white. It's folded. I can't stop looking at it. My chest feels like it's being crushed.
"Why now?" I ask.
Stupid. I shouldn't have asked. I regret it the second the words leave my mouth. I sound desperate.
Kael doesn't answer. A muscle jumps in his cheek. He steps closer. I smell rain and soap. I look at his hand. There's a cut on his knuckle. It's fresh.
He's been fighting.
My breath catches. I can't help it.
He flinches. It's just a twitch. For a second, he doesn't look in control. He looks... messy. Then it's gone. He shoves the paper at me.
"Sign it."
"I didn't do it," I say.
The words just come out. Why did I say that? The rumors haven't even happened. He hasn't said I stole anything. Not yet. I just said it because I'm scared.
Kael's eyes narrow. He looks at me like I'm crazy.
"Just sign it, Elara. Don't make this hard."
"I..." I look at his sleeve. There's a smear of red sauce on the denim. It looks like blood. I can't stop looking at it. It's just sauce. It's just from a plate. But I can't breathe because it looks like blood.
"Elara?"
He sounds... different. Not soft. Just... not as hard? I don't know.
I back up. My heels hit the counter. Clink. My hand goes to my stomach again. I can't stop it. I have to cover it. I have to—
His eyes drop. He sees my hand.
He stops breathing. I see his chest just... lock.
His face breaks. He looks angry, then he looks like he's seeing a ghost. He takes a step toward me, reaching out, then his hand jerks back like he touched a fire. He fumbles the paper. He almost drops it.
"Is that—" he starts. His voice just cuts off. He clears his throat, hard. "Are you—"
"No," I say. I'm lying. I'm lying and I know it.
He looks at my hand, then my face. He's not calm anymore. He looks like he's about to break something. His fingers are crushing the paper.
"You're lying," he snaps. It's too loud. Miller looks over from the grill.
"I have to work," I say. My voice is thick. I try to push past him, but there's no room.
He moves to block me. He's too fast. I stumble, and the plate finally slides. It hits the floor.
Smash.
Glass is everywhere. Fish and sauce on the dirty tile.
"Dammit, Elara!" Miller screams.
I don't look at Miller. I look at Kael. He's staring at the mess. He's shaking now, too.
"Sign it," he says again. He sounds like he's drowning.
"No," I say.
He reaches out and grabs my arm. He's gripping me too hard. It hurts. He realizes it and lets go fast, his hand just shaking in the air. He looks like he's scared of me. Or himself.
"You have to," he whispers. "Before it gets worse."
"It's already worse," I say.
The kitchen door opens. A waiter looks in. "Where's the fish? Table seven is pissed."
I look at the mess on the floor. I look at Kael. He's going to leave me. I'm standing in broken glass.
This isn't right. None of this is right.
Kael's face is white. He looks like he's going to be sick. He won't stop looking at my stomach.
"Elara, please," he says. His voice is a wreck.
I don't say anything. I can't. I just stand there while the waiter stares at us.