he says, looking down at the table, his fingers tracing a long, carved “C” in the wood. He is pissed, and trying to hide it. A plume of fear spreads through me. The tiny room closes in. All my confidence disappears. A cloud of shame hovers over me. Everything that felt just right now is terribly wrong. Who do I think I am, joking and feeling good? Like I have a right to think I am like everyone else. “I have?” “Huh,” he says, then takes an angry gulp of coffee. “Let’s talk about something other than scorching my balls, Carrie.” My name sounds like he’s spitting it, and he won’t look at me. I don’t know what to say. All I can process is my pounding heart and the bare-naked feeling I have. Like my skin is turned inside out and everyone is staring at me. It’s the same feeling I had after Dad’s arrest whenever I set foot on campus, or went to the grocery store. People knew something was wrong with me. They just knew. Eric makes me feel this way right now. “How about your job?
