Page 19

19

WYATT

We get back from our road trip in the middle of the night. I slept on the plane, but I still go straight to bed when I get home. I’m sore and tired and horny.

I can’t wait to see Everly.

We text when I get up, and make plans for dinner. This time those yahoos aren’t crashing my dinner date. We’ll go somewhere else, not the place we all hang out. I make a reservation at The Fig Tree.

I arrive early at Everly’s place, because it seems stupid to sit at home waiting to see her. She might still be getting ready, but that’s okay, I can hang out.

She doesn’t answer the door right away and I’m almost going to ring the bell again when finally the door opens.

Not only is she not ready, she looks like hell. I step in. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

“I’m not feeling well. I’m sorry.” With a hand on the wall as if she needs it to balance, she makes her way into the living room, then lowers herself carefully onto the couch. “I was going to text you. I was hoping it would pass.”

“Pass?” I frown, following her. “What’s wrong?”

She doesn’t answer, her eyes closed. Her face is flushed and shiny.

I perch on the edge of the sofa and touch her forehead. “Fever?”

“No.” She swallows.

“What can I get you?”

“Um. Some ice water?”

“Sure.” I hasten into her kitchen to fill a glass with ice and water from the fridge dispenser, then return.

She gulps down half of it and hands it back to me. I set it on the table, worry jabbing at my insides.

“I’m sorry,” she says again. “I don’t think I can go out.”

“That’s okay. We’ll just stay here. I can order something in.”

“Sure.”

She’s probably not hungry.

This is just what she was like that night of the banquet, when I had to bring her home. I thought she was drunk.

I gnaw my lip. “Have you been drinking, sweetheart?”

Her eyes open and her eyebrows snap together. “What? No.” Then her eyes widen. “You think I’m drunk?”

Telling her I thought she had an alcohol problem might not be a good idea right now. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen any signs of that since then. “No, no.”

She gives me an incredulous glare, then closes her eyes again. “Shit.” She takes a few deep, even breaths. “Okay, fine. I’m having a panic attack.”

I frown. “Huh?”

“I know I don’t look like I’m panicking or freaking out. But this is how it is. I get a buzzing in my ears. It gets worse and then I get dizzy and nauseous. My heart is racing.” She lays a hand on her chest. “It almost feels like I’m choking, my heart is beating so fast.”

“Oh man.” I stare at her with concern. I have zero experience with something like this. “Does this happen often?”

“Not as much anymore. I’m on a medication. It helps. Usually.”

“What happened? I mean, what caused this?”

“Nothing.” Her lips twitch as she almost smiles. “It’s never one specific thing that triggers it. It just happens at random times.”

“Is this what happened at the banquet?”

“Yeah. I didn’t want to tell you what was happening. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” I object. “I don’t know much about panic attacks, but I don’t think you can control them.”

“That’s true.” She sighs. “The first time I had one, Mom took me to the emergency room. I was so embarrassed. I thought I was dying, and they told me it was a panic attack. I was all, ‘I don’t have panic attacks.’” She snorts. “But that’s what it was. I figured I should be able to just get over it. But... I can’t.”

I pick up her hand and hold it. “I know.” I pause. “What can I do for you? Anything?”

“I... uh... would really like a Slurpee. It’s nice and cold.” She bites her lip adorably.

“I’ll go get you one.” I jump up and pull my keys out. “Where’s the nearest 7-Eleven?”

“Santa Monica and Sixteenth, I think.”

“What kind do you like?”

“Lemonade, if they have it. Or orange.”

I could probably walk there just as fast, but I make a speedy trip there and back, returning with a jumbo Slurpee.

“That’s so nice of you.” She sips through the straw. “Mmm. So good.”

I make a quick call to cancel our dinner reservation, then ask her, “Anything else I can do?”

“No. I just need to rest until I feel better. I know how it goes. In a while, it’ll settle down, but I’ll have a killer headache and need to sleep.”

“Oh man. Okay, I can do that. Do you feel like eating?”

“Not really. You go ahead, though.”

“I’ll order pizza. I can heat some up for you later, if you feel up to it.”

“Okay.”

Christ, I hate seeing her like this. She’s clearly miserable, and miserable because she’s miserable, frustrated that she can’t control this. I wish I could do more to make her feel better. At least I can be here with her and make sure she’s okay.

“How about a back rub?” I offer.

Her eyes open. “Really?”

“Sure.”

She rolls over. I ease her loose T-shirt up to reveal the curve of her back. No bra. (I already noticed that, to be honest.)

I slide my hand up and down her back, slow and gentle, over and over.

“That’s so nice,” she whispers. “Thank you.

I keep rubbing for a while, fighting back a stubborn erection. This is not the time to molest her. Then I tug her shirt back down and tuck a soft blanket around her. I hang out, eating pizza, drinking a beer, watching TV. She snoozes on the couch. I keep an eye on her.

Not my typical Friday night. But right now, I don’t want to be anywhere else.

It’s back to the grind, and with the All Star break done, all sights are set on making the playoffs. We have a home game Saturday against Philadelphia, and Sunday I head over to Heather’s to tackle some of the vegetation that’s taking over her yard.

“You don’t have to do this,” Heather protests when I arrive.

“I know. Just thought I could help out.” I find her garden tools in the small shed out back and set about trimming and weeding. She comes out to help, and I know it’s because she feels guilty that I’m doing this. Owen is “helping” too, although he gets in trouble when he pulls up some kind of flower that apparently isn’t a weed.

“Is Everly your girlfriend?” Owen asks me.

I shoot him a startled glance. “Uh... yeah, I guess she is.”

“I saw pictures of you together online,” Heather comments, not looking at me. “You hadn’t even said anything about seeing someone.”

“It’s pretty new,” I admit.

“Moving quickly.”

“Well, it’s not like we’re getting married next week,” I joke.

“Are you serious about her?”

I’m taken aback by the question. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Oh.” She yanks a weed out of the ground. “I see. You haven’t had a girlfriend since you moved here.”

“Nope.”

She says nothing, moving away to pull more weeds. I keep trimming the shrub, tossing branches to the ground. “Hey, Owen. You could pile up these branches for me.”

Heather asks me to stay for dinner, but I’m sweaty and itchy. Something scratched my arms and it’s turning red. “I better head home and shower,” I say, frowning at the scratches.

“You probably have plans with your new girlfriend,” she says with a smile.

“Uh, not tonight. We have a practice in the morning.”

“You played great in that game against Ottawa. I watched it on Saturday night.”

“Thanks. I felt really good that whole trip. Got a little banged up, though.” I ruefully rub my hip, which was turning shades of blue when I got dressed earlier.

“You should have rested today.”

“Actually, it was good to move around. It felt stiff earlier, but it’s loosened up a bit now.” I pull my keys out of my jeans pocket. “Hey, Owen! Come give me a hug!”

He bounces over, gives me a tight squeeze, then disappears. I grin. “Bye, Heather.”

“Let me know when you have a night off you can come for dinner. I’ll roast a chicken—you love that.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “Sounds good.”

I drive home, once again with that uncomfortable feeling that Heather is coming to rely on me too much. Maybe “rely” isn’t the right word. She’s always asked me to stay for meals as a thank you for helping her or taking out Owen, but lately she seems disappointed when I say no. Could be I’m imagining things. We’re just friends.

Maybe I shouldn’t have come over to help clean up the yard.

But I can’t just drop out of their lives. I want to be in their lives. I have to be in their lives.