Page 41 of Safety Net (Mendell Hawks #3)

As the night stretched, I managed my anxiety by doing breathing exercises and gradual body relaxation.

The ground techniques worked until another wave of worry breached my walls.

The house got more crowded, bloated with students and older people from town.

The music got louder, and people got drunker.

Conversation became looser, so one would think it'd be easier to weave in and out. One would be wrong. One would be me.

I took my first leap with a group of women who were on Mendell's softball team.

Their conversation had broken off from the hockey guys, venturing into the realm of a dating reality TV show I'd binged (and loved) whenever I couldn't manage to get to sleep.

Two of them hated the obvious scripted nature, while the other two thought that's what made it fun.

"It's almost the best of both worlds," I'd spoken up, inserting myself into the back and forth like I'd seen Lincoln do a dozen times tonight. Like he'd done ever since I'd known him. The initiation's not as terrible as I've built it up to be. It was everything that followed.

"How so?" All the softball girls had a blinding level of beauty, but the one who asked this was the kind of breathtakingly beautiful I believed could start wars. Her jet black, tight coils, dark skin, and round eyes would be the muse to some oil painter one day.

The beauty and inquisitive gazes sent me into another panic. I tried to build on my previous conversation skills: no awkward staring, no sudden pauses, and no weird stumbles (like when I couldn't pronounce 'school' earlier).

"Having people follow a script but somehow always make it their own.

It's a compilation of happy accidents," I managed to get out seamlessly.

Pride swelled in my chest because I hadn't had to look at Lincoln once.

In fact, I didn't know where he was. I stood on my own, articulating my genuine opinions.

The balloon of joy that'd begun to inflate in my chest popped when they stared at me for a moment in silence and exchanged the kind of looks only people who had known one another for years could.

A silent conversation proceeded, and a subtle judgment was made.

"Right," one with long legs and a short, blonde pixie cut said after their judge, jury, executioner sidebar. "Interesting take, I guess."

One of them scoffed, as if she disagreed. The others remained silent, as if waiting for a train to pass before they could continue exchanging ideas in peace.

It was a lackluster response. Nothing groundbreakingly horrible, and yet, I felt the need to apologize for interrupting and inserting myself into an established friendship that wasn't currently open to applications.

They eventually continue their conversation as if I hadn't said a thing. And the kicker was, they ventured into the realm I'd been trying to go. Theorizing on the merits of the blending of fact and fiction in a world where, thanks to social media, we have to exist in both constantly.

I didn't know how to stand. How to untangle myself after having said one thing and being edged out of the conversation in a heartbeat.

I turned my body away from them at least, understanding social cues enough to know hoovering would be foolish.

My gaze scanned the room, heart racing in hopes of finding a lighthouse before the storm got too heavy.

Everyone I knew had gone home or somewhere else. My need for escape was dire.

I eventually found Lincoln in the crowd. But when I managed to catch his gaze, he gave me that 'I'm so happy you're here' smile. His 'I'm so proud you're standing on your own right now' smile. The 'aren't you excited to be here, like this, with everyone' smile.

He would leave in a heartbeat, at the slightest inkling of my unwarranted discomfort.

I couldn't manage to convince myself to ask for his assistance on escape.

Not when his eyes were so bright and everyone around him seemed to want to talk to him.

I found a corner, pulled out my phone, and refreshed my email as if it were the most fascinating thing on the planet.

As if I was too busy to talk about my favorite reality TV show anyway.

Once it was too dark to see out of the vast bay windows in the front room of the house, I decided I waited long enough to pull Lincoln aside for a quick update.

I found him doing shots in the kitchen. His smile was wide, and his cheeks were red from the heat of what I would swear was a hundred people crammed into the house. We were all elbows and knees, knocking into each other, trying to get drinks and air.

"Hey." I held onto his shoulder, trying not to get pulled back into the current of people migrating. "Can we talk?"

He leaned in close enough so I felt his lips on my ear to ask, "Right now?"

I wanted to burrow into him and forget all the nerves clawing at my insides.

I want to be back in his bedroom with his arms shielding me from every uncertainty life has to offer.

When I met his gaze, I saw unfiltered happiness.

Before now, I thought I'd seen him excited and present.

Tonight was different. Tonight, Lincoln was weightless.

And maybe a little drunk. Very carefree.

Despite his smile, something was different about how quickly he was drinking. He could be easily distracted and quickly jumped from conversation to conversation.

"Or could we wait one second?" He held up a finger and took another sip of his drink before adding, "Someone found an old Wii. We're going to set it up. Do you want in?"

I glanced at my phone. "It's midnight."

"Yeah?"

"I—"

One of his teammates called him over — the guy from before who'd looked at me weird ever since I brought up New York twice. He was giving me that same look now.

Sorry for not hearing you say you hated that city, I wanted to snap. What was his problem?

"You in?" Lincoln asked.

I shook my head when I noticed the softball women gathering to play. My lips trembled as I tried to smile. "I'll watch."

"It'll only be a couple of games," Lincoln promised, giving me a quick forehead kiss, lips barely making contact.

A couple of games expanded into seemingly endless mashing of the "play again" button.

Everyone with a controller agreed to turn it into a drinking game.

And as good as he was at hockey, Lincoln wasn't great with game reflexes.

Or maybe it was all the alcohol. The point was, his response time was horrible, the house became a sauna, and I couldn't breathe.

By the third round of golf, I would bet my life there wasn't enough air left in the room.

I tugged on my collar, trying to manufacture some sort of breeze that could cool me down.

But the burning heat was coming from within as well.

The longer I tried to hold out, the lighter my head became.

I got up without saying anything (not like anyone besides Lincoln would care).

Going outside didn't immediately cure my lightheadedness, but at least the cool air provided solace.

I bounded down the porch and outside of the iron gate.

In the privacy of a dark, empty night, I stopped trying to keep my hands from shaking.

As the noise of the party became quieter, my breathing became louder.

My mind decided to run through every little interaction, dissecting my responses with stinging criticism.

You think you can survive writing in New York City when you can't even hold a conversation with your peers?

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying not to cry in the middle of the walk like the small person I felt like I'd become.

"Celeste!" He sounded a million miles away. Lincoln jogged to catch up to me.

He tried to reach for me, but I stepped back, too overstimulated to process touch. Hurt and confusion flashed across his face, but he stepped back, giving me space.

"What do you need? Water?"

"I'm fine." I waved away the question. "I think I just need to go back home."

His nod was slow, brows knitted with lingering confusion. "Sure…you weren't going to say goodbye though?"

"It was loud in there." Talking through residual panic made my voice breathy and strained. "I didn't think you'd hear me or…"

Honestly, I thought he was too drunk even to register my absence. And if I was lucky enough, maybe he'd forget my arrival, too.

But now, Lincoln looked steady and alert. Which meant maybe he was capable enough to maintain an awareness of time. Maybe he did remember we were supposed to talk, and he kept going on and on anyway.

I didn't know which would be more frustrating: him being too drunk to remember or him being sober enough to care. I didn't know if I was allowed to be frustrated. This night was supposed to be for him. And if he didn't need me, then that should be fine with me. I preferred being on my own anyway.

You don't prefer it. Not if the alternative is being with him. Even when you don't feel like enough, you want to be with him.

"You wanted to talk about something?" Lincoln asked.

He did remember. I waited for frustration to rise to the surface, but tasted sadness instead.

"Let's talk," he insisted, swaying a bit so he had to grip onto the fence to keep himself steady.

"You sure you can?"

He laughed, unable to detect the thick seriousness in the air between us. "I'm not that drunk."

I gestured to his hands on the fence. "You're not able to stand up straight on your own."

"I can." Lincoln let go, held his hands in the air, and made a show of spinning around.

He stumbled, and I reached for him. He laughed with his arm around my shoulder.

The memory of us at the beginning of summer, when I was too afraid to respond to his text message, flashed in my mind.

Despite my frustration, I smiled. "You seem happy. "

Lincoln raised a brow. "Happy?"