Page 23 of The One Month Boyfriend (Wildwood Society)

Kat

I don’t knowwhere I’m going, I just bolt. I know I’ve broken a glass and spilled wine and caused a scene, and somewhere in the back of my mind is a voice that won’t stop telling me those things, over and over, like a song played too fast. I shouldn’t run but I’m running a little, dangerous in these goddamn shoes, but it feels more dangerous not to run.

I turn left, then right. Half-jog down a hallway, one hand trailing along the wall so it doesn’t tilt too much. Fight the feeling that my vision is bubbling around the edges like an old film reel that’s caught fire, that there are a thousand rubber bands around my chest and every breath feels like almost enough air. No plan except leave.

The first two doors are closets. The third’s a bedroom, but the fourth is a bathroom and bathrooms are Alone Places and I sit on the toilet and put my head between my knees and try so hard to breathe it feels like I might crack a rib with the effort.

Everyone saw you look like an idiot and trip over your own feet and break a glass and freak out and run away, the voice says. Can you breathe? It’s bad that you can’t breathe. Maybe you’re dying. Maybe it’s a heart attack this time. Don’t pass out, you’d hit your head. Good thing you wore the waterproof eyeliner. Don’t bleed on the floor, the tile looks nice. Can you believe you did that? One little micro-aggression and you flip out? Do you think everyone will know soon? You’re gonna get weird looks at work. I bet they’ll tell Evan. You sure it’s not a heart attack?

I’m not sure. I’m never sure, because even though this has happened a dozen times in the past year it always feels like I’m dying. Fuck. Fuck.

I sit up, dizzy. Clench my teeth against it, still panting. I put all my will into not passing out and grab some toilet paper, hold it to the bleeding heel of my left hand.

“Fuck!” I hiss when it hurts in a new, twisty way I wasn’t expecting and the gray bubbling film feeling comes back. My fingers are cold. My lips are cold. Do your lips get cold when it’s a heart attack?

I bet they’re talking about you right now, eating dinner, getting your name wrong again and Silas is—

There’s a knock on the door. I startle so hard I almost fall off the toilet.

“Inside!” I manage to say after a long moment.

“Kat?”

It’s Silas. The person whose night I’m currently ruining.

“I’m fine!” I shout, still gasping for air. My voice sounds weird. I bite my lips together, try to force air into my lungs through my nose, still gripping one hand with the other.

There’s a long pause, and over my own fast, ragged breaths, I can hear the sound of a hand touching a doorknob.

In theory, I know what to do right now. It’s not my first panic attack or my fiftieth. I’ve walked through this with therapists and had plenty of practice, but that’s worth fuck-all right now because I can’t think of a single thing I’m supposed to be doing besides not passing out on this toilet.

“Can I come in?” he asks, and now it sounds like his face is right up against the door.

I shake my head no. I’m dizzy and the rubber bands are still there, tight around my chest, and I bite my lips together and close my eyes and shake my head no and the door opens.

“Ah,” he says, and the door clicks shut. Footsteps and then he’s right in front of me, the rustle of clothing, the quiet pop of a knee joint. “Okay.”

“Don’t.”

“Can I see your hand?” he says. He has the calmest voice I’ve ever heard, and I don’t answer. I don’t know the answer.

Silas reaches for me, slowly, so slowly I have all the time in the world to pull away or punch him in the face or scream. His fingers slide over knuckles and along the bone until he’s cradling my hand in his. Both hands. It’s more okay than I expected.

“I’ve got you,” Silas says, and I believe him. I don’t know why, but I believe him. “Tell me five things you can hear.”

I can’t breathe and I can’t move and I can’t open my eyes and look at him. I can’t do that more than anything.

“Nothing,” I gasp. “I’m fine, I’m good, I just—”

“Five things.”

“I don’t fucking know,” I hiss. I suck in a breath, swallow, keep my eyes shut.

“Then start by telling me one.”

My inhale is too sharp.

“My breathing,” I get out. “My heartbeat.”