Page 77 of The Life-Changing Magic of Falling in Love

That’s when I smell the bleach.

Sweat pops out on my upper lip and nausea hits bad, making the alcohol sitting in my belly bubble up.

Heat suffuses my face and I feel spacey.

Weirdly spacey, like I’m going to pass out.

Yep … definitely going to lose consciousness…

Any second now … as soon as I finish huffing and puffing around the cramping sensation in my heart. This isn’t good. Like, at all.

And I’ve sunk to a new low if I’m using the word ‘like’ the same way as Tim bloody Duggins.

Damn it.

I hit my chest.

Hate this.

Like, really hate this.

‘I—’ Need to explain. ‘I?—’

‘Wow. Okay, George, let’s get you sitting up.’

Suddenly Ashleigh’s hauling me into a sitting position and gently pushing my head towards my knees. I want to say the whole, hey, you can’t just reach out and touch whatever you like, you know, but I can’t form words on account of concentrating on inflating my lungs.

‘It’s okay,’ Ashleigh says. ‘Are you asthmatic?’

I think I manage to shake my head.

‘Which means I’m pretty sure you’re hyperventilating – having a panic attack. But it’s going to be fine. We’re going to sit right here on the floor and breathe together.’

‘I—’ She makes it sound so easy as she takes hold of one of my hands and enfolds it gently between her own.

‘Don’t worry about talking right now.’ In a flurry of movement, she’s letting go of my hand to rummage in her bag and then, either I’ve entered the hallucinatory phase of oxygen deprivation or a chocolate glazed doughnut really does bounce off my knee and land on the floor between us.

I look to her for confirmation and realise she’s holding a paper bag, presumably for me to breathe into. I’ve seen this in the movies and make a grab for it but she holds it away from me.

‘No longer the perceived wisdom, George,’ she declares. ‘Instead of you breathing into it, I’m going to move this paper bag slowly up and down and you’re going to breathe in while it goes up and breathe out as it moves down. You have one job … follow the movement of the bag as you breathe.’

‘I—’

‘It’ll pass, I promise you. In and out. That’s it,’ she encourages me. ‘That’s exactly right.’

Her voice is soft but firm.

Patient.

As if there’s all the time in the world for me to catch my breath.

Minutes pass as we sit on the floor. Her rhythmically moving the bag and me tracking its path, gradually realising the name on the front of it is one I’ve come to recognise: Oscars.

More minutes pass and gradually the hideous pressure in my chest alleviates and I feel like I can catch a breath, hold onto it, and release it before reaching for another.

‘We must have gone past the five-second rule by now,’ I finally mutter.

‘Huh?’ The bridge of her nose wrinkles cutely as she frowns.

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