The Art of Being a Gentleman

CHAPTER TWENTY

           

DAVID WAS TRIPPING back down the hallway in the next second, slamming the door shut behind him.

              He was going to throw up.

              He needed to get out of the house. It was too hot. His head was too light, too fuzzy. His eyes burned and blurred, and suddenly he couldn't breathe.

              Grace, was the only thought going through his head.

              Grace. No.

              Not again.

              Blindly pushing people out of his way, David somehow found the front door and stumbled out into the cool night. He leaned heavily against the railing of the steps, keeping his head over the bushes as the alcohol churned his stomach, ready to retch into them.

              But nothing came out.

              Grace.

              It was all coming back to him, hitting him like a bus. That night he had found her, almost two years ago now; he could see it all again.

              He tried closing his eyes but he still saw the red and blue lights cutting through the black of the night. He still saw his sister laid out on a stretcher, being carried out of the house and disappearing into the back of an ambulance. He still heard his mother's sobs and the even louder silence of his father.

              He could feel it all again. His heart was being shoved roughly back and forth against a grater, painfully slowly and much too fast all at once.

              He needed to get out of there.

              David clambered down the steps and tried to walk across the lawn but his legs were too weak, so he gave up and hunched onto the grass.

              He chest ached so badly.

              Reaching into his pocket he pulled out his cellphone and swiped at it. He didn't know there were tears until he realized they were the reason he couldn't see anything. He didn't try to force them back, he just blinked and let them roll down his cheeks, escaping from the pressure that was building up in his head.

              He hit the first number he thought of and held it desperately to his ear, awaiting the steady familiarity.

              "Hey! You've reached the Mack Attack, lucky you! Obviously I'm not—"

              David clicked it off. He peered at the screen realizing that it was after two in the morning and that Mack was probably so far into his sleep that no matter how many times he called it wouldn't matter.

              He ran his fingers through his hair and pulled at the strands, feeling frustrated. Frustrated because he was feeling too much. Too much all at once.

              A thought flew to his mind and he pushed it away immediately, but then it was back, just as powerful as the burning pain in his chest. He pressed his shakey finger to the screen again, picking a new number and waited, trying to calm his breathing.

              "...hello?"

              The voice was groggy, clearly just woken up, but it already lifted the tiniest bit of pressure off of his head. He closed his eyes as another batch of tears hit his cheeks.

              "Hello? ... David? Are you there? ... I'm gonna hang up if this is a prank—"

              "Hannah." He choked out, but that was all he could say. What was he doing? He probably shouldn't have called her.