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keep from throwing up.
    “I can’t get it all,” I cry.
    He shuts his eyes and pulls the hand I’m working on away from me. With the other arm outstretched, he leans against the corner of the shower stall with his eyes shut. “More vodka,” he says in a voice that vibrates.
    I bring it back to his lips, worried by how much his right hand is bleeding in his lap, worried by what the fuck happened in here. With his right arm raised, so that it hovers over his mouth, his eyes find mine. “You can go. Can you? Leave me here,” he rasps.
    “No way. No. Come with me.” I grip his shoulder. “We need to leave. I love you, Luke. I will never leave you. Just get up and come with me.”
    He starts to shake so violently again. He’s holding out his left hand now. It sparkles as it trembles.
    “Don’t say that,” he rasps.
    “Do what I say.”
    I leave him in the shower and get a towel, and come back to find him hunched and shaking, maybe crying. I can’t tell. I turn off the water.
    “Come on. It’s okay. Let’s go to the car.”
    I get him up and walking, and we somehow make it across the glass-covered floor and back into the room where we… where this…
    His breaths are fast and shallow as we start back down the pale green hall, both nude. I think about driving in the buff, and then the kitchen: phone; call 9-1-1.
    In the kitchen, he sinks down to his knees and somehow grabs my thighs.
    He grips his hair with one of his hands, and every time he moves, he sobs, “It hurts.”
    “I know. I know it hurts. I’m so sorry, Lucas. I’m so sorry.” I wrap my arms around him and hold on. He seems to shrink away from me.
    I look around the room, but I don’t see a phone. He holds his hand out to me, showing me all the glass in it; the blood drips; I note the old scar at the center of the action.
    I look back down the hall. I left my cell phone in that room. “Wait here! I need the keys. Wait here, okay?” I prop the bottle of vodka in his hands and start to dash off, for the car keys.
    “It hurts,” he moans. “It hurts.”
    “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” I sob. “I don’t want to leave. I don’t know what to do.”
    “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
    “Don’t be sorry. I’ll be right back.” And I run. I grab the keys, my clothes, and bolt back toward the kitchen.
    I return to find his head lowered. Words are pouring out his mouth, so soft and frenzied. 
    “I’m sorry, Shelly. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” He sobs.
    “I told her. I told her.” He sprawls back on one of his bleeding hands, falling asleep or passing out. His eyes roll in his head. “Leah? Leah,” he hisses.
    “I’m right here. Don’t pass out on me. Stand up.” I bully him to his feet, and he clings to me.
    “We have to move.”
    “I told her,” he is saying as we walk back through the foyer. “I told her about you. I told Mother…about you. I ruined your life.”
    Out the door and down the stairs. It’s so cold as we walk to his car, and I get him in the passenger’s seat.
    He yawns as I slam the door behind him. By the time I get around to the driver’s seat, he’s out.
     
    *
     
    Lucas
 
    My hands hurt—really bad.
    Leah is driving. Weird.
    I’m shaking, I think. Teeth chattering. Because it hurts.
    “Luke? Hey…are you okay?”
    The car is twisting through the pink sky, going between mountains.
    “Where are we?” I whisper.
    “We’re going to the hospital. My sister Lana is going to meet us there. She’s a psychiatrist and a psychoanalyst, and she’s going to make sure we—”
    “No hospital.” I look down at my wrists, and there’s blood all in my lap. I feel thirsty and I see some water in between us, but I don’t think my hands work. I can’t grab it. I’m so ashamed.
    I’m still shaking.
    I lick my lips and try to focus my hazy mind on Leah. “I can’t go. Can’t go. I’m sorry. I can’t go to hospitals.”
    “Why can’t you, Luke?” We curve along the mountain