“I’m sorry I’m late,” I say, sheepishly.

“We’re you late? I hadn’t noticed. I just got here too,” he lies. The bread plate is almost empty. He’s trying to be nice.

“Thanks for inviting me out,” I say awkwardly.

“Me?” he feigns offense, “This was all you. All I wanted was some eggs.”

I smile, not just with my lips, but I feel my eyes light up as well. It’s to early to have any hope this won’t be a nightmare. That’s not stopping me.

“I think we’re the youngest people in here.” I say, observing the plethora of white hair and bad toupees, and speaking just to avoid silence. “I feel like this is somewhere my parents would go. Well, if they…weren’t…” and there’s our first overshare of the night.

Thankfully he smirks at me. “Divorced or dead?” he asks bluntly.

“Divorced.”

“Me too. Twice, actually for my dad. How old were you?”

“Twelve,” I respond.

“Ah, the perfect age to blame yourself for it.”

“Yeah, well, I did.” I say.

“Most kids do. They’re usually not right.”

“Usually,” I reply with a bit of levity. “I was… troubled as a kid. Well…not just as a kid” and there’s our next overshare. Jesus Christ, Emily. Stop talking.

“Oh no, you’re not a psycho, are you?” he asks, jokingly. I don’t laugh.

The sweat starts around my temples.

“So how’s the bread?” I ask, deflecting.

“Oh. Uh…Did you want some?” he moves a small plate with some yellow liquid and green flecks of something toward me.

“No, no I’m good.” I’m not sure what that stuff is, but I’d rather not look more stupid than I already do. I notice I’m grinding my teeth and I wiggle my jaw from left to right to try to east the tension in my face.

I hear Dr. Harper’s voice in my head. Breaks like this occur usually around times of stress or anxiety. Emotionally charged situations.

Keep it together.

He regrets this already she says.

“So what’s good here?” I ask, my voice quivering slightly as I try to open the menu, not realizing immediately that it’s only one sided and doesn’t open. None of the prices end in “.99” and instead are just very large whole numbers in a fancy looking font. You showed up to this restaurant in a Pink Floyd t-shirt and are asking this man who probably only wants you for what’s in your pants to pay more than you make in a week for you to eat. If you don’t at least blow him he’s going to hate you.

“I don’t know, I’ve never been here before,” he answers. You trapped him. He’s looking for the exits. I look down over the menu, searching desperately for something I recognize that is also less than ridiculously expensive. The house salad is seventeen dollars.

My stomach is less butterflies, more jellyfish. Everything inside me feels like it’s being lightly electrocuted. I’m holding my breath and I don’t even realize it.

You’re right Emily. This was a terrible idea. Who are you trying to kid? He’s judging you. He knows. You’re a lunatic and he knows and he wants to run away from you and laugh at you and tell his friends about the time he went to an expensive restaurant with a cheap idiot psychopath who couldn’t even dress herself and didn’t know how to eat bread and they’ll laugh at you too. He knows. He knows.

The waiter walks up to take my drink order and I just go with water “for now.” Water is most likely going to be my main course.

“So,” he says, looking up with that smile of his, “Emily. I know that from your name tag. What’s your last name?”

“Hunter,” I say, and I realize my eyes are starting to water.

“Emily Hunter,” he says, as if judging the resonance of my name. “So my next question is: Who are you?”

So my next question is: Who are you? That wasn’t Harper. That was a man’s voice.

My hand is moving on my lap, back and forth in swift little strokes. If there were a pen in it, it would be tattooing a single word into my thigh.

“Not much to tell really,” I say back. I feel my face flush. He smirks at me, thinking I’m getting embarrassed, not realizing I’m desperately clinging to sanity.

“Come on,” he prods, “There’s something special about you.”

I manage a little chuckle. “Special. That’s the nice way people say it.”

Boom. Boom. Boom.

“Say what?” he asks with a cute little curious twitch to his face.

Breathe Emily. Die Emily. Breathe. I can smell every plate of food in the restaurant. I feel the air move every time the waiter opens the door to the kitchen.

She’s coming.

“You wouldn’t believe me,” I say. I look down to my lap to avoid eye contact, and I can see my veins bouncing with every pulse in my wrist.

“Oh Ms. Hunter. You’d be surprised what I’d believe.”

Oh Ms. Hunter. You’d be surprised what I’d believe the man’s voice repeats.

My throat dries out, and the waiter hasn’t brought my water yet. My eyes dart around the restaurant for him.

She’s here.

In the back of the restaurant, near the bar trimmed with imitation ivy, a middle aged couple sits at a table enjoying a meal and each other’s company. He is wearing a wedding ring, she is not. They look hungrier for each other than they do for the hundred dollars worth of entrees in front of them. They don’t see the little girl standing on their table, her eyes closed tight, but somehow still staring me down.

Please, no.

“Emily?” asks Kyle.

Emily?

“Would you still love me if you knew I was insane?” I hear myself say out loud.

Kyle staggers. I’m sure both at the “L” word as the “I” word.

He doesn’t love you.

I know that. How could he? I’m a fucking disaster.

Carrot is on the floor now. She’s standing still, but keeps getting closer. Her hand reaches out to me.

She needs you.

She needs me.

“Emily, I… I…” Kyle says as he searches for anything to say. “Are you okay? Are you…?” He looks behind me to see what I’m staring at. He can’t see her either. No one can. No one but me.

I am special.

Next Chapter: Excerpt from "Eleven: Hodie Mihi, Cras Tibi"