Page 11

Chapter 11

Emilie

Why can’t I take a full breath? I throw the blankets off and practically jump out of bed. Tapping my phone screen, it says it’s after midnight. I’ve been lying here for over an hour yet I’m nowhere near sleep.

I can’t put my finger on what’s wrong, but I don’t feel right. It’s like my skin is a size too small, and there’s too much pressure on my bones. I feel like I'm sideways in a world that’s completely upright.

I walk through the apartment; the rhythm of my steps is consistent, a stark contrast to my erratic heartbeat—it frantically flutters and flips. My limbs feel weightless, kind of how I'd imagine space to be.

Space. I hate space. Oblivion. Darkness. So much nothing. Nothing to hold on to.

Fuck. This is taking a turn for the worse.

I bite my lip hard, needing to feel the sting. It’s there in a reassuringly painful way. My brain tries to run but keeps stumbling, getting stuck on the things that I hide from during the day. The thoughts I’m able to manage, most of the time, and tend to only come out at night. I pinch the skin of my forearm, like how I wish I could squeeze the intrusive thoughts which are a rabbit hole away from bringing me to my knees.

After countless laps around the living room and kitchen, I pause and check my pulse. Count and feel . Count the heart beats, feel the blood move through my body.

I am here .

This is real.

I am safe.

I grip my phone, my safety net—what if I have to call 911? Tapping the screen, I see that only three minutes have passed, even though it feels like it’s been almost an hour. Fuck. It feels like I’m floating.

Sitting on the edge of a chair in the living room, I put my head between my knees. I suck in as much air as my lungs will allow and hold. Each second that passes, I keep the breath, and my heart rate slows from a sprint to a skip.

I try to take a deep breath but the corners of my mouth resist—the skin cracking and strained. My tongue pushes against the roof of my mouth, then my lower lip, and it feels like there’s no room for it. Is it swelling? Can I swallow? Is this what an allergic reaction feels like?

My mind runs through the last few hours, trying to find the culprit. The traitor.

The trigger.

When I come up empty on a reason why, I practically jog into the kitchen, desperate for cold water. My hand swings the cabinet door open, definitely too hard, and I grab the first glass I can find.

Shoving the glass under the faucet, I only let it fill up halfway before chugging it. The tightness in my chest lessens with each swallow, proving my throat isn’t closing. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

Buzz . A text message comes in.

Zack

look at this shit

He sends an article, and while I’ve seen this picture in twenty different versions, the headline is a new one: Zack Andersen Fumbles His Look While Date Scores Big. A perfect distraction. It’s like he knew I was spiraling .

I skim the article from our night at Trivium, which calls out Zack for wearing something boring, lazy, and uninspired. Meanwhile, my outfit gets 4.5 red-bottom shoes, indicating a successful outfit.

it wasn’t boring

I mean obviously, you look good but

I thought WE looked good

Me

how did you even find this?

woah didn’t expect you to be up

FJ sent it. Convinced the guy has a Google alert set up and just waits for something like this to send in our group chat

Fritz, or FJ, is an equipment manager for the Upstate Cosmos. And Zack is probably right. While they are all close friends, they love to pick on Zack when given an opportunity.

we did look good

don’t let the low brow clickbait get you down

why are you awake

Instead of telling the truth, something like, “Well, I’m in a crippling obsessive-compulsive disorder episode and the intrusive thoughts feel like they could choke me,” I tell a little white lie.

Nightmare. Can’t fall back asleep.

I see the bubbles, indicating Zack is typing, come up and disappear a few times. And then the phone rings.

“Hello?”

“That article is going to keep me up. That’s my nightmare,” Zack says, his words quick and choppy.

I feel my lips slightly shift from the firmly pressed line to the smallest start of a smirk.

“Why did you call?” I ask, genuinely wanting to know the answer. My mouth is dry, and I cough, covering the hoarseness of my voice.

Zack sighs. “Not being able to sleep is the worst. I thought I could tell you a story and maybe bore you right to sleep.” Even now, late at night, Zack feels like he moves at an energy level I can only tap into on special occasions.

This isn’t how I expected my night to go.

“You don’t have to do that—”

“I know I don’t. Maybe I’m the one who needs a distraction from that fucking article,” Zack scoffs, which makes me almost laugh. “Two things. One, do you want to talk about your nightmare?”

There’s nothing to talk about, so I reply, “No. Not really.”

“Valid. Two, do you have breakfast plans for tomorrow morning?”

Tomorrow. Wednesday. The middle of the week.

“No plans.”

“Want to come with me to my favorite breakfast spot in the morning? I could meet you at your place, and we could walk together.”

Zack lives close by, maybe a ten minute walk. There’s no reason not to go to breakfast, minus the fact that I might be dead tired, depending on how the rest of the night goes.

“Breakfast sounds good. As long as it’s not some fashion revenge tour. I need tomorrow to be low-key. ”

I almost trip over my words. I’m still taking in the distraction from my overactive brain.

“Definitely an athleisure type of spot,” he confirms. When I don’t say anything else, Zack continues, “Why don’t you go get cozy? And have you ever heard about the one where I went to an amateur male stripper night?”

For some reason, I’m compelled to listen. I walk to my bedroom.

“No, I haven’t heard that one, but I don’t want any more nightmares.” I fall into my bed and pull the covers to my chin.

Zack laughs, light and clear. “Oh, this is a funny story. Promise.”

He launches into the story, his voice inflecting up and down in a way you’d hear someone read a children’s book, not like he’s talking about getting naked on stage.

“Really, it was poor marketing on their part. I thought I was showing up to a boy band dance contest. Rules were simple: dance to any boy band song of your choice and the winner got $500.”

“What was the pull here? You don’t need $500.”

“Shh. This is my story,” he lightly scolds on the other line. “It wasn’t about the money but here’s the thing… I love a boy band moment. It seemed like it would be fun. Anyways, the thing they left out was that the dancing was a strip tease.”

I prop my phone up on my pillow, Zack’s voice still easy to hear, and let my body relax. My bones, heavy and tired, feel comfort with the weight of the blanket. I place one hand on my chest, feeling secure in the rising and falling of my own breaths. I will myself to sink further into the mattress, the pressure welcome and like a warm hug. My eyelids flutter, struggling to stay open, until they finally lose the fight.

And I fall asleep to the sound of Zack’s voice.