REBECCA
Reiner was waiting for me in the kitchen: he was clearly nervous, and had a glass of water in his hands.
"Hey," he whispered as soon as he saw me, approaching me and offering me the glass. "What's going on?"
"Nothing," I lied, taking a sip of water and walking towards the counter, to put the glass in the sink. "It's ... late, why didn't you go ... upstairs?"
I couldn't bring myself to say "to your house": it almost felt like I was kicking him out.
Not that I didn't want to be alone at that moment.
"Maybe because you had a panic attack from which you have not yet recovered?" he asked rhetorically. "I'm not leaving until I'm sure you're okay."
I tightened my lips. "I'm fine," I insisted. "You can go, really."
"Yes, and donkeys fly".
This time, his voice was closer and deeper
