Page 39 of A Summer Thing

My stomach hurts from laughing, aching from the constant tensing of my muscles as I continue to crack the hell up.

At first, it was just the sight of Jude—moody, broody, tattoos lining his body from his neck to his toes—riding on a colorful, vibrantly-painted horse moving him up and down beside me, his large body dwarfing the animal beneath him.

But then it was his expression when he caught me laughing.

His features tensed and drew tight into a scowl that would have been intimidating if he weren’t spinning around on a hand-carved, rainbow-colored, elegant horse on a carousel.

What really did me in, though, was when he reached across the space between us to tickle me in retaliation, and fell off the fucking horse.

Now he lies on the floor, laughing his ass off, too, and I can’t catch my breath.

My cheeks hurt. Tears burn at my eyes and spill free with my laughter.

When the ride slows to a halt, I book it off my horse. Jude chases right after me, and adrenaline rushes through me, urging me to run even faster.

He catches up to me in no time, throwing his arms around me and bringing us both to the ground, though he softens the blow with the weight of his body beneath me.

His hands slide up my sides and dig into my ribs, tickling the shit out of me.

I howl in laughter, gasping for breath. “Okay! Okay! I’m sorry!” I manage. “I swear to God, you looked fucking majestic on that thing,” I add, but my words don’t help my case, and he tickles me even harder. “Truce!” I scream. “Truce! Please!”

He stops his assault on me, and I roll onto the grass beside him. Swallowing down large gulps of air, I can finally breathe. I tilt my face sideways to meet his, and gray eyes catch mine. Humor swirls inside them, rivaling the usual storm. I’m not sure which version is more beautiful.

But God, I could stare at him all day.

I don’t think I’ve ever had as much fun as I did with him today.

Taking in a deep breath, I tell him as much, and his resulting smile makes the admission entirely worth it. Satisfaction edges his lips, matching the light in his gaze. It sends my own possessive sense of pride blooming through me, too.

I reach for my necklace out of habit, appreciating this moment and wanting to hold onto it a bit longer—but it’s not there.

Panic seizes my chest for a startling breath, but I force myself to remain calm, because surely, it must be here somewhere. Tucked somewhere beneath my shirt, or caught up around my chin, or—I pat my chest and neck frantically—but no, there’s nothing there. My necklace is gone.

No.

No, no, no.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no.

I shoot up onto my feet and scan every inch of the grass around me.

Nothing.

Fuck. Fuck. “Where the hell is it?” I breathe, but it sounds more like a pained cry.

“Where’s what, Little D?” His brows pinch together, his hand sinking into his hair as he rises onto his feet. “What’s wrong? You look as white as a ghost.” The worried look he’s wearing sends another rush of panic flooding through me.

“My—shit—my necklace. Quinn. My—” I can’t make sense of my words when I’m still trying to catch up to my own thoughts. A sob gets caught in my throat. There’s no way in hell I’m going to find it. Eight hundred and forty acres, and it could be anywhere.

Calm down; I need to calm down.

But my breaths aren’t coming fast enough, trapped somewhere inside my lungs, and I can’t fucking breathe.

My vision clouds and bleeds out of focus.

“Hey. Hey, hey, hey,” Jude says softly, his forehead pressed to mine. “I got you. Look at me.” His firm hands wrap around my upper arms, steadying me. “Breathe. Breathe with me,” he’s saying.

He takes in a deep breath of his own, and I watch his lips part, his chest rising and falling, and rising and falling. I try to match my breaths to his. They skip and stall, but I continue to force air in and out of my mouth in strangled gasps anyway.

In, and out.

In, and out.

I hate that he’s seeing me like this. Hate that he’s the only person who’s ever been able to pull me out of the dark place my mind lingers inside of and direct it toward him instead.

The sudden clarity of that acknowledgment is comforting, but also startling, terrifying.

Five, four, three, two, one. Five, four, three, two, one, I remind myself, hoping to slip further away from the panic.

Five things I can see: Jude’s arms holding me tightly against him, his strong hands keeping me steady.

Stormy gray eyes, and the concern churning violently within them.

A broad chest rising and falling with its breaths, matching the cadence of mine.

Dark boots on the concrete as he pushes that much closer, dragging me into him in a fierce, comforting hug.

The dip in his throat as he swallows, and his head nods, encouraging me to keep breathing, and breathing, and breathing.

Four things I can feel: Jude’s hands sliding from my elbows to my shoulders to my neck.

My heart trembling as it beats inside my chest. My breaths squeezing through a tightened windpipe, fleeing from my mouth in a hurry.

His forehead knocking down into mine, rooting me in place against him, grounding me.

Three things I can hear: His steadying breaths. His heart pounding beneath my palms. His quiet, careful words— "It’s okay. We’re going to find it. Keep breathing with me. Everything’s going to be okay.”

Two things I can smell: The grass surrounding us, and Jude. Spice, thunderstorms, and fresh rain.

One thing I can taste: His mouth when I lift up onto my toes and kiss him. He tastes like cotton candy. Like every summer and storm-drenched day rolled into one. Sweet, sugary, masculine.

My heart finally calms, my breaths settling into a regular tempo. Panic bleeds from my body, from my psyche, taking the buzz of adrenaline along with it and leaving a numbness in its wake.

I nearly sag into the floor.

If it weren’t for Jude’s hold on me, I would. But I melt into him instead, molding my body into his as exhaustion flourishes around my bones. He holds the full weight of me in his arms without a single complaint.

I want to go home now. I’m mortified.

But my necklace. “Fuck. My necklace…” Anxiety expands again like a balloon inside me.

“We’re going to find it, Little D,” he says, and I believe him. It’s impossible, but I believe him.

We scour the park, tracing our every step backward for so long the sun disappears. Down every sidewalk, and in every swatch of grass, back at the hotdog cart, and inside the museum, and all the way back to the carousel again.

I walk around its perimeter, my eyes glued to the spinning floor, watching for a spark, or a glare, or anything that might signal a missing necklace dropped on the ground.

With every passing minute, my heart sinks lower, burrowing into the deepest pit of my stomach.

There’s no way we’re going to find it now.

“Declan! I got it! I found it!” Jude rounds the carousel and doesn’t stop his quick pace until he’s right in front of me, a golden chain dangling from his fingertips, and a thin pendant, too.

Relief floods through me. It washes every ounce of dread away from my body, because he found it. He found it.

“You—” Tears spring forward behind my eyelids, spilling free. I can’t finish my sentence as he stretches his arms around me and clasps the necklace together behind my neck. Giving it one last squeeze, he drops it softly against my heart.

“We found it, baby.” He presses a kiss to one of my cheeks, and then the other, holding me carefully between his palms.

Declan, California, Dec, Little D —he’s run the gamut of names with me, but baby is a first.

My eyes meet his. Gray, but no longer chaotic, no longer turbulent. Just sure. Settled. Calm.

“Declan, I—”

I push up onto my toes and kiss him, silencing his words. Our mouths slide together as two separate entities, and then melt into one. I can hardly tell them apart as we move them together—lips, tongues, teeth, exploring. Exchanging feelings and words I’m not ready for us to say.

I think I could kiss you for a lifetime, being one of them.

And I tell myself it’s possible, too.

______

Later that night, in my dorm room when I’m all by myself, I stare into the mirror. Into the torrent of my own gaze—blue and raging like the sea.

Opening the cabinet, I grab the orange plastic container I’ve been avoiding and clutch it tightly in my fist. I sway back and forth, mentally, between being brave and taking them or tucking them away and putting it off again.

I know what I need to do, but I keep telling myself I can handle it. That I can fix it.

Maybe now that I’ve stopped drinking as much; maybe if I make some healthy life changes, like eating better, or drinking more water, or cutting out caffeine, too; maybe if I talk to someone, a therapist with expertise who can help; maybe those things will fix it first.

I’ve felt so broken for so long, it’s only now that I feel this roiling anger bleeding through the cracks, my mind stuck on all the reasons why I have so much anxiety in the first place.

I spill a white pill onto the counter, watching as it rolls and shakes and settles. It’s crazy to think that taking this will somehow make the darkest, shittiest parts of my mind disappear.

What else will they do? Those same parts whisper.

My throat grows thicker, my hands clammy, my heart beating against my ribcage.

I know what I need to do; I can’t keep living this way.

But the irrational part of my brain is screaming that they’re a terrible idea.

You might not feel like yourself anymore, after taking them.

They might take away your anxiety, but what if you’re left feeling numb to the rest of the world?

They could make you tired, dizzy, nauseous all the time, and wouldn’t that be miserable?

What if you’re not diligent enough and forget to take them for days at a time, and it makes everything that much worse?

What if you have an adverse reaction? What if your heart stops beating?

My mind is an endless loop of dark thoughts, and I don’t want to deal with the possibilities right now.

I might have had a panic attack today, one of epic proportions, but it was understandable. I nearly lost the only part of Quinn I have to keep with me.

I swipe my hand over the counter, intending to watch the little white pill drop down into the wastebin below, but then there’s another softer, quieter, hidden part of my mind that screams— If demons are real, anxiety is one of them.

A frequent visitor. And I open the door, and welcome him right the fuck in.

So I pick up the tiny white pill, place it back in my palm, and toss it into my mouth, swallowing it down with some sink water cupped in my hand.

I won’t stand in my own way any longer.