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I have a secret, one I’ve never shared with anyone, not even my best friend or my husband—I have panic attacks.

The first time I had one, I was in elementary school.

I told my mom I was scared to try a particular jump in ballet rehearsal, and she told me to not let the fear keep me from doing it.

So I pushed myself. And I did it, but not without falling many times.

Each time, I felt the noose tightening more painfully around my neck.

And the night I finally nailed it, I walked out of the studio and into the bathroom and slid down the wall, clutching my chest, thinking I was dying. I didn’t tell my mom about it.

And those panic attacks remained my secret. Even after spending almost half my life with Beau, he still doesn’t know about them. He knows certain things make me anxious, but he’s never seen the anxiety overwhelm me. I’ve never let him.

After my injury and the miscarriage, it was too hard to have him around and hide it. So I asked him to leave, and just when I finally felt like I was making progress, I found out I was pregnant and they came back with a vengeance.

The thing is, I’m actually so happy to be pregnant again.

I want it to work out so badly. I want to be healthy for this baby, and I want to fix things with Beau and raise our baby together, but I’m so scared of my body failing me again.

Of losing this baby. Of falling apart so epically this time that I’ll never be able to repair myself enough to let Beau come home.

It’s that fear that has me in a chokehold as we pull into the doctor’s office. It’s the trauma from the last time we were here and the terror that it’s going to repeat itself that has me gasping for air, clutching the cracked leather seats in Beau’s truck like my life depends on it.

I hear Beau say my name, but he sounds far away. There’s a whooshing sound in my ears and my vision is blurry. It feels like the cab is closing in on me, suffocating me. I’m overwhelmed and out of breath, my chest squeezing until breathing is a chore.

Distantly, I think I need to gather myself, to hide this from Beau, to wipe the worried look from his face, but I can’t.

I can’t.

And so instead, I look him in the eye and tell him the truth. “Beau, I can’t do this.”

He reaches for me, but I wrench open the door, needing air .

I stumble out of it and round the front of the truck.

I can’t see where I’m going with tears blurring my vision, so I sink to the ground right there.

There’s a small part of me that is thankful that I made it to the front of the car before falling apart, that I’m hidden from the view the receptionist has from her window.

She may not be allowed to talk about what goes on inside the office, but she wouldn’t hesitate to tell the entire town what she saw happening outside.

The dangers of living in a small town.

My breath is heaving when I feel Beau’s hand on the back of my neck as he slides down to sit behind me. “Are you about to be sick?”

His voice is so warm and gentle that it gives me the strength to shake my head. He doesn’t say anything else, only smooths his hand up and down my back as I gasp for air. It’s…comforting. And it keeps me from fully falling apart.

I hate that he’s seeing me like this, but the feeling of his hands on me is so good that I can’t help but lean into his touch a little more, soak in the warmth he’s always radiating.

He’s the only thing anchoring me right now, and I’m grateful for it, greedy for it in a way that feels as essential as breathing.

I’m not sure how much time passes before my heart rate begins to slow down.

When it’s happening, I never have any concept of time.

Sometimes I sit in my shower, and by the time the water runs cold, I’m still shaking too badly to get out.

Sometimes I just need a minute in the janitor’s closet at the dance studio.

And right now, I have no idea how long I’ve been sitting on the cold asphalt of the parking lot of the doctor’s office, Beau’s hand sliding up and down my spine, his fingers brushing the skin of my neck above the collar of my coat before moving back down.

When I finally chance a look at him, he’s watching me with those piercing eyes of his.

They’ve always seen more than I want him to.

Right now, that divot looks permanently etched between his brows.

I think he’s going to have wrinkles beside his mouth from frowning so long.

He looks ready to fight every single one of my demons.

He doesn’t know that they’re all just me.

“What happened?” he asks, sounding as wrecked as I feel.

Maybe it’s the pregnancy fatigue, or maybe it’s the mental exhaustion I always feel after a panic attack, but the truth falls out of me without my permission. “It was a panic attack.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and tangible, and my heart races as I wait for him to respond, to ask a thousand questions, to try to help.

But he just nods, and says, “Are you okay now?”

I blink at him in surprise, unsure of how to respond.

I wasn’t okay. I was dreading his response, and fear and regret were clawing up my throat at my accidental confession.

But the way he didn’t press, the knowledge that I don’t have to explain my deepest secret on the cold ground outside of the doctor’s office, soothes something inside me.

So when I reply, it’s truthful. “Yes, I think so.”

He nods again. “Are you ready to go in or do you want to stay out here for a little longer? Or we can reschedule.”

I let my eyes drift to the mountains in the distance. I want to run to them and not go inside that office, not experience what I did the last time I was there, when I stared at an ultrasound screen, looking intently for a heartbeat that none of us could find.

But I also realize that running away isn’t going to stop anything bad from happening. Squaring my shoulders like I have a thousand times before—when it would be so much easier to let them curl in on themselves—and inhaling deeply, I say, “Let’s do this.”

Beau holds my gaze for a long time, warm brown eyes assessing. I don’t know what he’s looking for.

“We can go in,” he says finally. “But I just want you to know that we don’t have to, and rescheduling wouldn’t make you any less brave.”

His words slice down into the most vulnerable places inside me, stealing my breath, but I refuse to let it show.

This is why I asked him to leave three months ago.

He can see all the pieces of me I’ve kept hidden for so long, even from him.

I’ve never learned how to show someone everything, but somehow Beau sees it anyway.

I swallow against the lump clogging my throat and will my voice to come out strong. “Thank you, but I’m okay, really.”

Instead of answering, he stands and extends a hand to me. I take it, grateful for the warmth of his skin when mine has gotten so cold. Before I realize what he’s doing, he’s pulled me into a hug, enveloping me in his heat, and I can’t help but sink into it.

His lips press to my temple, soft skin and rough mustache. “You’re the strongest person I know, Elsie Jennings, even if you don’t feel like it all the time.”

The words feel like warm honey slipping down my spine, making the cold, dark places inside me feel like they’re thawing for the first time in months.

He pulls back before I can push past the lump in my throat to respond.

Then he takes my hand and leads me into the doctor’s office.

All the sour memories of this place come rushing back the moment we walk through the doors, and suddenly, I feel like I’m going to be sick if I have to talk to the receptionist. But to my surprise, Beau leads me to a seat and leaves to check me in.

I should protest, tell him I’m capable of handling it on my own, but I’m too tired to attempt it.

Instead, I sink into the uncomfortable chair and allow my eyes to drift around the place.

There are photos of local babies on the sage green walls.

I recognize them as some of the kids of people Beau went to high school with.

If things had played out differently, maybe our baby would be on that wall right now. It makes an ache stab in my chest.

Beau returns a moment later, sitting in the seat beside me. “All checked in.”

“Thanks,” I say, and I mean it. My hands are still trembling and my legs feel like gelatin. I’m not sure I would have been able to stand at the desk and accurately answer their questions.

He gives me a small smile. “No problem.”

His phone vibrates in his back pocket, and he pulls it out to check it, reading what’s on the screen before typing something back.

I let my eyes settle on his hands, strong and capable, and I think about reaching for one of them, holding on to it and letting some of his steadiness seep into me.

He’d let me hold on to him like he’s a pillar in a storm.

But before I work up the courage, a nurse calls my name, standing at the door that leads back to the exam rooms. I recognize her from around town, but I can’t think of her name.

My heart is pounding again. I feel it in my throat, in the backs of my knees, in the place between my eyes. We follow her through the doors, and she smiles at us warmly. But despite my best efforts, I can’t make myself return it.