Page 132 of Relationship Goals

“No, you’re safe. I’m not throwing up. For now, I think,” I amend, lest the porcelain gods decide to curse me for my hubris. “He knows?”

“He isn’t stupid. He’s also…well, you idiot, he’s nice. Not charming. But he’s good, and you. Fucked. It. Up.”

“He lied to me.” My cheek presses against the cold tile, and sweat drips off the tip of my nose.

“And what you’re doing is better?” He rolls his eyes. “You liked him, Abigail. Really, truly liked him. I know you did. And he liked you—hell, why else would he be getting you Gatorade and chicken soup and crackers or whatever the fuck else he’s getting? He’s not faking it with you, you moron.”

Tears dribble down my cheeks.

I’m shocked there’s enough liquid inside me to make them. Fascinating.

Darren sighs, his eyes softening somewhat. “Abigail. Talk to the man. Don’t self-sabotage this time.”

I sniffle, and Darren continues wiping the makeup off my face with gentle strokes.

“I’m still mad,” I tell him.

“So you’re going to keep acting like this until you’re not mad anymore? Until you push him away completely?”

“Darren, stop,” I say, sitting upright so suddenly I almost smack him in the forehead.

“No, Abs, you need to hear this. I can tell the worst of this is over, thank god, but I’ll wait around to see if you need a pill or something. Do you want me to call your doctor? Or Jean?”

“I don’t want to hear anything and, no, don’t. Please don’t.” Ialmost stick my fingers in my ears but decide that’ll probably just convince Darren to call my doctor and Jean and maybe even my mother.

“I’m calling your doctor,” Darren tells me. “She’s all yours.”

And that? That is not directed at me at all.

A grunt sounds at the door to the bathroom. Luke.

Chapter Thirty-eight

Abigail

I wake upunder one of my many fleece blankets, tucked in tight on the couch. A moment passes, and I wait for the inevitable surge of nausea that will accompany consciousness.

“I’m alive,” I whisper, my mouth as parched as a freaking desert, and then louder, “I’m alive.”

I didn’t have a heart attack, after all.

Which means I did, in fact, have a panic attack.

Shame goes through me, which rationally, I know is stupid. I could control a panic attack about as much as I could control a bout of food poisoning. But the shame is there, all the same.

There’s a huge cup with a straw in it, and I moan, my hand shaking as I reach for it. Ice clinks against the side, and the moment the lemon-lime-flavored sugary drink hits my tongue, I let out a sigh of pure relief.

It’s fresh…which can only mean one thing.

“Abigail?” A hoarse voice says.

I jerk my head up and immediately regret it.

Shock ripples through me.

Luke Wolfe’s curled up on the floor, one of my couch cushions under his head. “You okay?”

“Yeah. I feel…rough. Really tired. But I’m gonna make it.”