The Valley and the Flood Rebecca Mahoney (top 10 motivational books TXT) 📖

A delicate wobble in the corner of your eye catches your attention. There’s a paring knife to your right, just barely balanced on the edge of the counter, as if set down in the middle of a task.

He’s smiling at you now. He should stop.

“Colter,” he says. “What happened with us—obviously I shouldn’t have done that. But you know that Gaby—that was different, okay? It’s been nice talking to Flora. It’s been really, really nice. So if you could just—not say anything.”

You are miles away from home in the Summers’ kitchen, cool tile under your feet, a simmering, humid night beyond the windows. But right now, in this moment, you might as well be back in that night. On the road, in the dark, breathing airbag powder and misty air.

You can’t tell anyone, please.

You go silent. It can’t have lasted all that long in reality, but in the moment, it is an infinite stretch of time. The acid in your chest burns. The knife on the counter bobbles. Your next thought comes so fully formed, it’s like a voice in your ear.

This is what it feels like to want to hurt someone.

The handle of the knife shivers to a halt. And you—I—imagine sliding it into my hand. Using it. I imagine it so vividly that it feels inevitable.

“Oh!”

Flora’s come up behind me. She slides past my shoulder, pushing the knife safely onto the counter as she gathers Nick into her arms. “I thought you couldn’t make it until Monday!”

“Got off work early,” he’s saying, somewhere far away.

They’re both looking at me now. They’re looking and they’re not looking. They’re looking at the me who would be here normally: silently asking me to be okay with this, even in their absolute confidence that I will be. They don’t see me as I am now, with pins and needles from head to toe like all the skin is trying to crawl off my body.

What was that just now? is all I can think. What was that?

“Rose?” Flora says slowly. Please don’t say anything, her smile begs. Please just be okay with this.

I don’t say anything. I don’t trust myself to. I smile, and I leave the room.

And I pack my bag.

—

THE LOCAL TIME is 11:46 p.m., and there are three hundred and thirty-two miles between Las Vegas, Nevada, and San Diego, California.

The GPS sits on the hood, a bright pop against the night.

It calculates four hours and thirty-one minutes for the drive home.

I want this to be over. I want this to be over. I want this to be over. Please just let this be over.

Twenty-Eight THE ANSWER

WE RETURN TO the present in bursts:

The reds and oranges of the model house kitchen.

The paring knife, still balanced on the counter next to my hand.

The Flood, opposite me, wearing my face, my clothes from that night. The handle of Flora Summer’s paring knife rests in her upturned palm.

“Listen,” the Flood says. “Remember. Understand.”

“I am. I do.” I cross my arms, like it’ll stop something. Like it’ll hold this all in. “You saw that happen, didn’t you? Was this where you found me?”

The Flood nods once. Their face, my face, is a careful blank.

“And did you know what I was thinking,” I say, “standing in that kitchen?”

I could swear, for a second, that a shadow crosses the whites of their eyes. But they nod again, impassive as ever.

A little, painful sound escapes my throat and clapping my hands over my mouth doesn’t smother it. “Earlier that night,” I whisper, through my fingers, “I told Flora what was—what’s going on with me. She said that it was—She didn’t finish, but—she was going to say ‘dangerous.’ Wasn’t she?”

Their face does darken this time.

“And is that what you think?” I say. “That I’m dangerous?”

Their gaze shifts to the knife, still balanced delicately on their palm. Their head inclines, just slightly, almost like a bird’s.

“Please”—the words come out in a rush, a torrent—“please, you don’t have to do this.”

“Understand,” the Flood says softly.

“I don’t,” I say. “I didn’t—I’ve been trying not to think about it. I haven’t tried to understand it. Please, this doesn’t have to be the answer—”

They open their mouth again. But not for words this time. A torrent of water spills out, more than any human could ever contain, splashing onto the floors, against the walls. Their edges blur, like a dam opening, until they no longer look like me. They are dark, churning liquid, rushing toward me.

The foundations of the house tremble. The windows rattle. Slowly at first, then steadily, water begins to pour down through the roof, through the cracks in the windowsills. The wallpaper starts to lift from the walls, like the house is tearing itself to pieces strip by strip.

And the distant roar of that ancient ocean—it builds like a train, bearing down on me.

I was supposed to get my things. Right now, I couldn’t remember where they were if someone held a gun to my head. Nothing I own is as important as running, and running now.

The blast of sound as I hit the front steps rattles like a physical blow. My vision tunnels, I barely recognize Marin Levinson’s front porch under my feet. I need to focus, I need to focus, but my blood is clawing at my skin and my lungs are inching up my throat and I know I’m not dying but right now that’s impossible to remember. I get down the stairs and to the cul-de-sac, and I stay on my feet, but—

The world flips on its axis as I turn the corner. I’m not headed away from the Levinson house anymore, I’m headed back toward it. The houses and streetlights, barely more than sketches against the vibrant center of my memory, shivering with every bass beat.

I scramble into a turn and sprint for the cul-de-sac. This time, I dart down a different street, but again, the world flips, again it