“Matthew?”
I couldn’t answer her. Even when I felt her arms around my shoulders and felt my face pressed against her skin, my vocal cords just wouldn’t work. I kept my eyes closed and tried to focus on breathing slowly, which was made easier by the sweet smell of Mayra’s skin and hair.
How long anxiety attacks lasted was always a mystery to me. They seemed to simultaneously last both forever and a fraction of a second. I only knew that when I could focus again on where I was and what I was doing, I was still wrapped up in Mayra on the floor of the living room, and a photo album from my childhood was lying open on the floor.
A picture of my parents holding me as a newborn was on the displayed page.
“I miss them,” I said quietly. “It’s been so long. Why do I still miss them?”
“It’s only been a year,” Mayra said. “That isn’t very long at all. Besides, you’re getting all uprooted right now. It makes sense you are going to be thinking about how things were before. Isn’t that what Dr. Harris told you?”
“Yes.” I tucked my head back against her and sighed. I listened intently to the slow beat of her heart beneath her chest and the gentle sound of her breaths. “Can we make love yet?”
Mayra snickered.
“You don’t get out of it that easily,” she said. “I told you a minimum of three boxes packed first. You’ve been in here for an hour and only have half of one filled.”
“I don’t like doing this.”
“I know, baby.”
“Can’t we just commute?”
“It’s more than a two-hour drive, Matthew,” she reminded me. “You know that isn’t going to work. We’ll be able to visit on the weekends. Maybe we can have Henry, Travis, and Bethany all join us for dinner here once a month or something.”
“Which day of the month?”
“Um…how about the second Saturday?” Mayra suggested.
“Every month?” I asked.
“I can’t promise every month,” Mayra said, “but we’ll try.”
Mayra had gotten very good at not allowing me to manipulate her words—that’s what Dr. Harris called it—to serve the facilitation of my own issues. Sometimes it pissed me off, but most of the time, it reminded me that she was trying to make everything smoother for me. I needed a lot of that this week.
On Sunday, we would move to Columbus to attend Ohio State University.
Not surprisingly, I had been a basket case as the day grew near and had all but refused to pack anything to take with us. After about the tenth time I had managed to convince Mayra to do something else—anything else—she started bribing me with cake. When the cake stopped working, she started bribing me with sex.
Cake had the potential to make me full, but I never seemed to get enough sex.
I pressed my lips against her collarbone and then nuzzled the fish-shape with my nose. That wasn’t quite enough, so I brought my hand over to poke it with my index finger, then my middle finger, then my ring finger…
“That’s enough!” Mayra giggled. “Pack.”
“I can’t right now,” I said. My arms tensed and my back straightened. I was prepared for her to push me to get more done, and I needed her to, but that didn’t make it any easier. What she suggested surprised me.
“How about a quick break?”
“In my room?”
“No,” she said, “that never ends up being quick.”
“I could try.”
“Not falling for it.” Mayra twisted a little on the floor to get me to look toward her. “TV for a bit?”
“Okay.”