Page 82 of Pack Me Up

All I can think about is how horribly I’m going to mess this up. I should send Tommy out there without me.

I keep pacing the small space and stare at the guitar my pack got me, trying to calm myself down.

The crowd is on the other side of two walls, and their noise is everywhere. It’s a low, relentless pressure, the way a migraine blooms behind your eyes. Sometimes it breaks through in aburst: a chant, a shriek, a crash of applause. Sometimes it’s just white noise, but that’s almost worse.

I count my steps, trying to get the number right. Seven from the fridge to the mirror, nine if I walk slowly and pretend I’m not about to puke.

I count my breathing.

Four in. Hold. Six out.

That’s what the therapist said, anyway. I try to breathe, but it’s like the air is filtered through a dirty rag. My chest hurts, every breath is sour. I keep thinking about what would happen if I just bailed, walked out, and ditched Tommy.

“Brittney, hazel, what can we do to help?” Hunter asks desperately.

My omega wants me to turn to them for comfort, but I just can’t.

There’s a knock on the door that makes them stiffen, and they check who it is before opening it.

“She needs a minute,” Fox tells whoever it is.

“I know she’ll be freaking out, let me help,” Tommy insists.

I shout, “Let him in!”

They listen, and Tommy comes busting through the door.

He slides over, all arms and elbows, as he pulls me down next to him on the sticky vinyl couch.

“You okay?” he says, voice low now. “You don’t have to play, you know. We can cancel. I’ll fake a fainting spell. I could totally sell it.”

I snort, but it’s a half-laugh, half-sob, and the sound makes my skin crawl.

He puts an arm around me. “You want to do that thing? The one with the counting?”

I nod, not trusting my voice.

He starts. “Five things you can see.”

I pick the fridge, the mirror, the dent in the wall where someone punched it, Tommy’s neon green nail polish, and my mates.

“Four things you can touch.”

My guitar, my jeans, the rough vinyl of the couch, and the string callus on my left index finger.

“Three things you can hear.”

The bass from the main room, Tommy’s voice, and the rattle of the fridge cycling on.

“Two things you can smell.”

Old coffee and Tommy’s shampoo, something sharp and lemony.

“One thing you can taste.”

I swallow. “Panic.”

He laughs, bright and clear, and the sound actually helps. “You’re going to kill it, Britt. Worst case, we flame out spectacularly, and you get to blame me in your memoir.”