Excerpt from Gold Fame Citrus by Claire Vaye Watkins, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"Easy, sweetheart," he said. From his mouth escaped the scent of rot.

Something leaden and malignant seized Luz's heartmuscle. She wrenched away. "I can't breathe," she said, barely.

Ray turned. "What?"

"I can't breathe."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm dying."

He put his hand on the back of her neck.

"I can't breathe," she said. "I fucking can't breathe."

Ray didn't laugh at this, though it was laughable. Luz knew it was even now, except the knowledge was buried somewhere in her beneath bird tongue and daddy-o and sweetheart asphyxiation.

"You're okay," he said. "Listen."

She gripped his shirt in her hands and pulled. "I can't breathe, Ray."

"You're all right," he said. "Tell me."

One of the birds went wrat, impossibly loud, and Luz flinched. Wrat again and she began to claw at Ray's midsection. People were looking at them now, some laughing, and she had designs to open her boyfriend up and hide inside him.

Ray took Luz's two scrambling hands in one of his like a bouquet and looked her in the eye. "You're okay," he said again. "Tell me."

"I'm okay," she said, though she was also dying.

"Tell me again."

She looked at him; she breathed. "I'm okay."

"We're walking," said Ray, taking her by the shoulders.

They walked and breathed and walked and breathed and soon a dim disk of light floated ahead of them. Ray led her to it, miraculously, Luz saying, I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay.

Their blanket—a duvet meant for guests of the starlet—was still under the footbridge when they got back, another miracle. Ray sat Luz down. He passed her his ration jug. She refused it and he passed her hers.

He watched her as she drank.

"Thank you," she said after some time.

"Do you want to go home?" he asked. He wanted to see the bonfire, she knew. He said, "It's fine if you do."

What she wanted was a few Ativan and a bottle of red wine, but those days were over. It was cooler in the canal and the air was freshish, or at least it moved. The long shadows of the mansions stretched to shade them and the blanket had not been taken and there was Ray, trying. She told herself to allow these to bring her some comfort.

"No," she said. "Let's stay." She sat on the blanket and breathed. Eventually, Ray asked whether she wanted to go back to the drum circle.

"Can we just sit here awhile?" she said.

"Sure."

"Sorry."

"Don't be," Ray said, which was what he always said. He motioned for her to lie back and rest her head in his lap. She did. She fell asleep and dreamt nothing.

—

Luz woke needing to pee. It was nearly dark but fires were glowing along the spine of the canal, the bonfire down the row throbbing brightest of all. Ray had taken his shoes off and was lying on his back. Luz sat still, studying him in the smoky light: his willowy hands, his steady chest, the tuft of black hair in the divot of his collarbone, barely visible above the neck of his T-shirt. His flat, slightly splayed feet. Everything about him suggested permanence. She rose and kissed him on the head. "I have to pee."

Ray started to stand.

"It's okay," she said. "I'm okay."

Luz made her way up the wall of the canal. The trench beyond was dark and balmy with stink, but she was feeling much better. She straddled the trench, lifted her dress, urinated, shook her ass some then stood up. Yes, she was feeling better. The sun had gone down and the canals were cooling off, the nap had dissolved the throb in her head, as a good nap will. She was okay. She would have some more water, eat something. There were blueberries in Ray's backpack and mash in the growler. She was all right. They would go back down to the drum circle. They would dance. They would bonfire. She would not ruin everything after all.

Excerpted from Gold Fame Citrus by Claire Vaye Watkins. Copyright © 2015 by Claire Vaye Watkins. Excerpted by permission of Riverhead Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.