The Valley and the Flood by Rebecca Mahoney (i wanna iguana read aloud TXT) 📕

you could tell one person in your life what’s been happening, who would you tell? He never said, Tell Flora.

And you should have known better. The second it’s out of your mouth, you know it was a mistake.

“What?” she says.

This past year, you’ve learned the twitches and creases of Flora’s face to the minute. Even after she moved, even over the phone, you know her. You see her straighten. You see her blink. You see her knuckles whiten.

“It sounds more dramatic than it actually is,” you say quickly. It didn’t sound that dramatic. You were so sure of that. You used that full name, clinical and straightforward. No four letters. But she heard them anyway. Loud and clear.

For a moment, you think her face is about to crumple. Then the set of her mouth thins into placid confusion.

“That doesn’t sound right, Rosie,” she says.

There’s a weightless feeling in your stomach. Like you missed a stair, and you’re falling.

“No, I’m . . .” You swallow. “Like I said, my therapist—”

“Have you told him everything?” She sounds delicate. She never sounds delicate. “I mean, you’ve always been so sensitive. That doesn’t mean you’re . . .”

It’s a different story than she told every time you were allowed to do something that Gaby couldn’t. If you were allowed to watch scary movies, or walk to the store by yourself, or stay at home alone, it was only because you could take care of yourself. Rose can take care of herself. Rose can take care of herself.

This isn’t how you practiced it. If she cried, if she panicked, if by some miracle she understood, then you’d know what to say.

“I really think it’s different,” you say. You try for conviction. It doesn’t stick.

“Have you thought about trying someone else?” she says. “Like a second opinion. You’re grieving, sweetheart. Of course you should talk to someone. But what you’re talking about—that’s a serious condition. That’s . . .”

Dangerous. She’s not going to say it. But you’re going to hear it nonetheless. And there’s a long moment of hot white noise after.

It’s weird to wish that your therapist was here. But right now he’d give you that side-eye, this incredible look of pure salt you never used to think he had in him. That look he gives Flora—well, the idea of Flora—more often than anyone. She’s having a hard time, you always say. So are you, he always replies

If Maurice was here, you might take that unsaid word for what it is. An intrusive thought. More to do with her than with you. But here’s the thing. Maurice isn’t here.

“Yeah” is what you say. What you hear yourself say, without much conscious choice on your part. “Maybe.”

Flora’s face tightens. “Please don’t be upset, Rosie.”

“I’m not,” you say quickly, because comforting Flora is solid ground. This, at least, you know. “I promise. I’m just . . . gonna get us more tea.”

Her mouth is still slanted, unsure. You hug her on your way out the door. What else would you do?

You wait until you’re in the stairwell to breathe.

Believe it or not, there are times when even your head can shut up. Doesn’t mean it’s quiet, though. There’s electricity in your veins, a buzzing in the absence of words.

Dangerous.

It’s been half a year now since you realized, standing in the hallway of your apartment, what’s happening to you. It’s felt like so many things these past few months. But not since that moment has it felt like a sickness again. Not until now.

You turn the corner. And there’s someone else there.

It’s not Jon. The figure at the end of that narrow hallway of a kitchen is taller than Gaby’s stepfather, leaner. He’s carrying a duffel bag, his posture as lopsided as his grin. And for the first time since the funeral, you are face-to-face with Nick Lansbury.

He keeps smiling. Because unlike you, he was expecting this.

“Hey, Colter.”

Twenty THE MISSED CONNECTIONS

THE SUN KEEPS shining, relentless, but the heat doesn’t quite reach me. I lock my arms around my little takeout container of avomango rolls as I walk down Morningside Drive, but I can still feel the chill under my skin.

Cassie asked me, when I first came to Lotus Valley, if there were ever times when I couldn’t get warm. Apparently there are.

She’s expecting me by now. I think so, anyway. It’s 3:58, which tells me nothing. If my watch could tell me when Cassie left exactly, that would be much more helpful.

But before I go to the station, there’s one more thing I need to do. And I feel just steady enough to try.

“Are you there?” I say quietly.

I know they are. Sutton Avenue is swimming into shape in front of me. It shimmers, shifting when I turn my head. From one angle, it’s the street that lives in my mind, flat and bare and starless. From another, it’s—I haven’t seen it for almost two years, but this is how it must look in reality. Buzzing with fireflies and crickets. Shrouded in trees.

Something cold brushes my ankle, and I gasp and jerk back. There’s water trickling down the road, branching into little rivers across the pavement.

I turn toward the low, ever-present roar. Because I know what it is now. It’s the beginning. It’s the full force of an ocean, bearing down on us.

“I didn’t meant to upset you,” I whisper. “I did upset you, right?”

There’s a hum that sounds like assent. Or it could be a distant car engine, here in the memory. But I’ll take it as a yes.

“Was the Mockingbird right before?” I say. “Were you feeling what I felt?”

This time, I hear it in the air, down to the tone and texture. Mmmhmm. It rushes down my back like a shiver.

“I’m fine now,” I say. “So you don’t have to be upset.”

There’s a rustle in the branches that sounds distinctly like laughter. Which, frankly, is kind of uncalled for.

“Okay, okay, sure,” I say. “A little less than fine.”

Sutton Avenue flickers again. The air crackles with distant potential energy.

“Your friend—the Mockingbird—she