Page 6 of A Summer Thing

Chapter Four

Declan

I find the bathroom and lock myself inside, quickly doing my business and washing my hands.

It’s as I’m drying them that I catch my eyes in the mirror—blue, and distant. I slide my lip balm from my pocket and smooth it over my lips as my heart thrums in my chest, its beats crawling up into my throat and down into the pit of my stomach simultaneously.

I’m not sure why, exactly, but I can feel myself slipping. Anxiety sinking its talons into me, playing with my thoughts like puppets on strings.

You don’t belong here. What do you think you’re doing? You think you left your shit behind, but it’s dragging, dragging, dragging right behind you.

I slam my eyes shut.

I need to… I need…

I need another drink is what I need. I twist the door open and make my way to the kitchen without remembering any of the steps I took to get here, weaving through bodies and landing at a glittering sea of half-empty liquor bottles.

I grab for the closest one, not caring what it is, and clutch it in my hand as I pull a red plastic cup from the top of a nearby stack. I pour at least three fingers worth and toss it back, welcoming the numbness that immediately settles into my bones.

Whiskey.

I pour two more.

But before I can swallow it down, someone crowds me in from behind. My pelvis is pushed into the counter with a painful bite.

“Hey, gorgeous,” someone I definitely don’t know slurs into my ear. I slide out from under him and push away from the counter.

“I saw her first, dick,” another guy says, blocking me in yet again.

“Could you two please back up?” I ask. Dealing with drunks almost always goes better when you start by coming at them nicely, I’ve learned.

“What’s a pretty girl like you doing all alone at this party?” the first one says, stepping even closer. His hips are now touching mine, and a creeping chill works its way down my spine.

I try to ignore how suffocating it is, being boxed in like this. Try to ignore the memories it digs up and throws into the forefront of my mind.

“Back the fuck up,” I say next, because when being nice doesn’t work, the gloves come the hell off. I have zero patience for this kind of bullshit, or the way it makes me feel.

The first guy laughs and the other one follows. “Not a problem,” he says, not taking a single step backward. And there it is. The look that comes right before the— “Fucking bitch,” he adds.

“What the fuck did you just say?” a third voice snarls from behind me, deep and viscous. If anxiety weren’t clawing at my chest, I might be able to acknowledge the way it sends goosebumps skittering up and down my arms. But as it is, it’s the least of my concerns at the moment.

The two guys finally back the hell off, their eyes widening at the guy towering over the counter behind me. At Jude. I’ve heard his voice all of three times, but it’s already etched itself into the walls of my brain.

The douchebags throw their hands up in surrender. “We meant nothing by it, man, just trying to be friendly.”

Jude’s laugh is short, dark, and entirely unamused. “Get the fuck out of here. I see you again, you’ll regret it.”

And so, they do. Get the hell out of dodge with their tails tucked between their legs. I turn around to thank Jude, but he’s already facing the fridge, pulling out a bottle of water and walking away.

Okay.

I catch a dozen pairs of eyes on me after that, when I turn to leave, and my heartbeat ratchets higher, pounding against my ribcage and beating on its walls in an effort to escape.

The room starts to close in on me until I feel like I can’t breathe.

And at first, I don’t recognize it for what it is. The shortness of breath, the shakiness in my chest, the tingling buzz in my hands and in my fingertips, working its way up my arms and through the rest of my body. The mental blanket smothering my thoughts. The tightening in my throat.

At first, it feels like nerves, and anxiety, and the aftermath of what just went down, an uncomfortable number of eyes settling on me in result.

But then it’s like a punch to the gut—becoming aware of the panic once it’s already too late. Once it’s already flooded my system, racing through my veins, controlling my thoughts, and constricting my breaths until I want to scream.

And I am screaming, on the inside.

I’m raging, and thrashing, and falling to the floor in a puddle of tears, yelling at everyone to mind their own goddamn business.

But on the outside, I’m a put-on smile, and a fake stance of nothing to see here, everything’s fine, and I’m walking out of the kitchen and through the party and out the tall glass sliders, out onto the balcony.

There’s still a crowd of bodies out here, but at least they aren’t paying any attention to me.

Even still, my heart rages, my breaths trapped and begging to be set free. In the suffocating haze of panic, it feels like dying.

I need to be alone. I need just a moment of quiet and an ounce of space.

And now I hate myself for choosing the doors to the balcony and not the ones that would’ve led me outside down below, out into the parking lot where no one else seems to be.

I glance around, my eyes darting all over the balcony in search of some sort of reprieve, but I find none.

The realization that I have to push myself back through the party makes everything that much worse, and I seriously contemplate jumping off the balcony as my panic attack consumes me before I notice that it continues farther, curving around the side of the building.

Thank God.

I follow it around with quick steps and find a shred of relief at the sight of no one there. Making my way to the farthest end just in case, I slide down the brick wall until my ass meets the floor and give the effort to take a full breath all I have.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

For what feels like an eternity. Until I feel the smallest slice of calm finally settle into my nerves.

And then I recite the five steps that sometimes help, sometimes don’t, hoping this time they’re successful in dragging me further out of the darkness.

Five, four, three, two, one.

Five, four, three, two, one.

Five things I can see: My hands clasped together in my lap, releasing their tight hold on each other as they slide down my legs; my converse-covered feet slipping over loose rock on the concrete as I drag my knees up to my chest; a parking lot full of cars, rows of them filling the spaces below; a streetlight that shines over the lines of them, casting shadows across the asphalt; and an elderly couple making their way down the sidewalk arm-in-arm before ducking into an Italian restaurant together.

Four things I can feel: My heart slowly calming, thudding in my chest with a more and more regular rhythm; the grainy-smooth texture of my Levi’s beneath my fingertips; my breaths slowing now, too, coming and going a little more effortlessly.

My forehead knocking down onto my knees with a relief that forces my entire body to sag into itself, pressing back against the wall and down into the ground with the weight of it, and I want to cry.

It takes everything I have to swallow the urge down.

Three things I can hear: Laughter. Muddled conversations. The faraway buzz of a crosswalk signaling someone’s turn to cross.

Two things I can smell: Alcohol, and the fresh, warm breeze fluttering through my hair.

It smells exactly like what you’d think an Oklahoma summer night smells like. Humid, and thick, and… buttery. Which doesn’t make any sense whatsoever, but it makes me crack a smile.

I close my eyes and tilt my head back against the brick wall behind me.

These are the things that make me question my own sanity. Wanting to cry one second and laugh the next. Feeling like I’m dying one moment and then knowing it was all in my head five minutes later, my mind spinning twisted tales into my reality.

It is what it is. I release a breath. At least I’m sitting here in one piece, despite the mess of my life and the mess of who I’ve become as a result of it.

And the last step, I remind myself.

One thing I can taste: Relief. Relief that I’m still standing, even if there is a world of wreckage crumbled and scattered around me. And the fact that I keep getting back up despite all of it.

I realize that’s not technically how it works for taste, but I feel like I’ve got a good grasp on myself now. On the panic and anxiety slipping further and further away in my rearview.

______

Just as I’m fully relaxed, fully grounded in reality, I hear footsteps round the same path I took to get here. All it takes is one look at my intruder’s shoes, and I already know who it is.

Jude.

My eyes trail up his worn-in combat boots, dark denim, black tee, and black jacket. Over the tattoos that adorn his neck, and up to his piercing gray eyes.

My breaths get stuck in my throat again, but this time, it’s simply from the sight of him. The light scruff on his face, accentuating his scowl—though it’s not nearly as harsh as the ones I’ve seen on him before. The purse of his full lips. His dark eyelashes, framing those striking grays.

He sits down next to me without saying a word, and his head falls back against the brick behind us, mirroring mine.

And my thoughts are sluggish. From the alcohol. Or my latest episode. So I just sit here and watch him, curiosity blanketing my thoughts.

Why is he out here? Why did it look like he was looking for me, specifically? Why did he choose to sit down next to me? Why isn’t he saying anything? Why, why, why, to all of the things.

He pulls a joint from behind his ear and a lighter from his pocket.

The joint meets his lips, and the flame meets the tip of the joint, and he takes a deep inhale, holding it in for a few seconds before releasing it into the air above him.

And then he quietly offers it to me, his arm falling over my knees in a casual gesture that feels anything but casual.

Not with him sitting less than a foot away, touching me in a familiar way when we’re anything but familiar.

Which doesn’t explain why it feels familiar.

I shake my head. “No thanks,” I answer his unspoken question.

“It could help, you know,” he says.

And I’m not sure what he’s implying, so instead, I say, “I thought you didn’t smoke.” At least that’s what it sounded like when he turned his friend down earlier, but I could be wrong.

“I don’t,” he responds, just those two words and no explanation.

He starts scowling yet again, but it looks different from up close.

Tension pulls at his features, drawing them toward his mouth.

Drawing my gaze toward his mouth. “Except on the rare occasion I need to shut my mind off,” he offers, much to my own surprise. “Helps silence unwanted thoughts.”

I glance up at his eyes, knowing he’s saying something without actually saying it.

That I’m a mess, and maybe he can see it, but maybe he’s a mess, too.

He must’ve seen me tearing through the party in my desperate need for escape.

Maybe he knows what panic looks like, what it feels like.

I don’t know, but I find myself wanting to know.

I take the joint from his fingers and consider taking a hit.

Instead, I just take my time inhaling the calming smell of it and hand it back over to him.

If I didn’t know better, I would say the little twitch happening at the corner of his mouth was an attempt at a smile, directed at me. But his head is still tilted back, facing the night sky.

He hasn’t looked at me once since sitting down next to me, and I wonder all over again what he’s doing out here, when so far, before this small moment on the balcony, he hasn’t seemed to be able to tolerate even the sight of me.

A dozen questions follow that one, resting at the tip of my tongue, but I can’t find the words for any of them, so I just keep staring at him as he stares up at the stars.

He takes another hit, slowly rolling his head over the brick to face me for the first time since sitting down, and blows the smoke directly into my face.

I take a breath, watching his eyes through the smoke as they roam over my features and land on my mouth. I lick my lips in response, my gaze falling to his lips.

His mouth is what dreams are made of. Pouty, and wicked, and begging to be kissed.

I’m not sure what comes over me—whether it’s the alcohol still weeding through my veins, or the exhaustion from my panic attack settling into my bones, or a combination of everything all at once—but I lean forward with every intention to do just that.

“Ah ah,” he says, leaning back, tutting his head back and forth.

I pause and take a breath before leaning back, too.

I should probably be embarrassed by his rejection, but he doesn’t give me any reason to feel embarrassed, so I let it go, even if the need to feel his mouth on mine only grows stronger because of it.

He pulls the joint back to his lips, taking a deep inhale, and looks over at me expectantly.

I read his intent and lean closer again, and this time, he moves forward, too.

His lips barely touch mine. A light brush along the surface, urging me to open. I part my lips, and he blows his mouth full of smoke into mine, pressing just a fraction closer.

It’s a kiss, but not a kiss. A touch, but not a touch. The most exquisite kind of torture, the most painful kind of bliss, being close enough to feel him but not close enough to taste him.

I inhale the smoke and the heady flavor of weed, pulling away from him and releasing a cloud of it into the air.

I can feel his eyes on me, watching me intently. When I look up at him, there’s no mistaking the smile framing his lips now, the smallest dip of his dimples accenting them.

And I can feel myself smiling, too.