Page 20 of Bi-Partisan

I nod and suck in a ragged breath.

“Is this—are you having a panic attack?”

I squeeze my eyes shut and nod once. God I hate this. I’ve managed to go so long without actually having a panic attack, and now I’m having one in front of someone who’s never seen me have one. Sophie is probably never going to look at me the same way again—most people don’t, after seeing a grown man fall apart.

I hear her take a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Do you want me to get you a chair?” she asks, her voice suddenly calm.

“No,” I croak out. “I’ll be okay. Just—” I take a slow breath, then let it out. “Just give me a minute.”

“Do you want me to give you space?”

I shake my head immediately, and cover her hand on my forearm with my other hand before she can pull it away, surprising myself. Usually, I don’t like being touched when I’m having a panic attack. The most I’m ever able to handle is Casey pressing his shoulder against mine to let me know he’s there, riding it out with me. But Sophie is helping ground me, too, right now.

“Okay.” She squeezes my arm.

Then, I focus on my breathing. Inhale, hold for a beat, then exhale. The voice of my old therapist rings in my ears, reminding me to count the breath cycles—a trick to slow the brain down as well as know how much time is passing. It only takes about ten for the worst to have passed. Then I release my grip on the table and Sophie and straighten.

“You good?” she asks, a gentle smile on her face.

I search her face for any signs of pity, but all that’s there is patience and kindness. Slowly, I nod. “Sorry.”

She frowns and crosses her arms over her chest. “Don’t you dare apologize for having a panic attack.”

She reminds me remarkably of Casey in the moment, who says almost exactly that any time I try to apologize after an episode. So much so that I can’t help cracking a small smile. “Okay. Thank you.”

She nods, seemingly satisfied. “You’re welcome. I’m going to guess and say that’s not the first time that’s happened,” she says, her voice lilting at the end like it’s a question.

“No, although it’s been a while,” I say, pausing before I just rip off the band-aid. “I got diagnosed with an anxiety disorder in college.”

“Well, if I had known, I would have delivered the news a little more gently—maybe made sure you were sitting down or something,” she says with a sheepish smile. “But thank you for telling me, and now I know for the future.”

“I’m not sure sitting down would have changed anything,” I say honestly.

“Yeah, that’s fair.” She hesitates for a moment, then circles her arms around my waist.

Exhaling softly, I hug her back, letting my chin rest on the top of her head.

“I’m going to go let the front know you’re heading home sick so they can call in the on-call vet.”

I open my mouth to protest, but she pulls back and gives me another stern look.

“And don’t bother arguing. You just had a panic attack, and you’re still shaking like a leaf. You’re not in the best shape to deal with patients, right now.” She holds my gaze for a long moment until I give up.

“Okay, fine. You’re right,” I say with a sigh.

“I know,” she says cheerfully. “Go home, drink some tea, and cuddle a cat, okay? And stay off the internet.”

I do not stay off the internet.

I know I should. Nothing good could come from seeing the kind of vitriol the social media is spewing right now. I’ll admit that I do try to, for about an hour. But then, I get a message from someone on social media claiming to be Jamie’s press secretary, and the anxiety and curiosity get the better of me. I need to at least see the article—see for myself just how visible my face is. I also need to shut up the part of my brain worrying that I accidentally slept with a Republican or otherwise terrible politician. I know I can believe Sophie, but with nothing else to distract me, I can’t stop thinking about it. So after assuring his press secretary—Mina Harmon, who I recognize as the brunette Jamie was with last night—I had nothing to do with the photos getting out, promising that I have no intention to go to the press, and giving her my phone number in case she needs to contact me, I spend my afternoon delving deep into Jamie’s political history.

At least until I get a text from Jamie asking if we could talk. Since we didn’t exchange numbers, I assume he got it from his press secretary. I’m already on edge, so the vague “can we talk” text hits worse than it usually does. But I agree to see him, which is how he ends up at my apartment for the second day in a row.

When I open the door, the Jamie that greets me isn’t the one I got to know last night. Nor is he the one in the pictures I spent the afternoon looking at. He’s wearing the black peacoat from last night, but underneath is a UNC sweatshirt and a pair of gray joggers. His hair is a wild mess, like he’s been running his hands through it all afternoon. There are bags under his eyes and his skin is pale. He looks almost sickly. Yet, despite the look that would probably be considered disheveled on anyone else, he’s still devastatingly handsome. No wonder he’s popular.

“Hi,” he says, the exhaustion plain in his voice.

“Hi,” I reply.

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