Page 49 of Revenge Cake

“What are we doing here?” I ask, hating that I sound so churlish.

I can’t let him see how I’m feeling. He can’t know how desolate I feel at just the thought of losing him. He would think I’m pathetic.

“I thought it would help distract you,” he says, but I know it’s not that. That doesn’t explain the nostalgic bent to his impulsive choice in taking me here. The weather is warm for February and the sky is clear, casting a metallic glow over the ocean. The beach is nearly empty, so like that evening after the Women’s March. He even guided me over here to the swing set, as if we could laugh about that stupid T-shirt and reminisce about the first time he told me he loved me, in the middle of my fucking panic attack.

Bringing me here was a statement, whether he knows it or not. Even as he tells me he loves me—which he has on an almost hourly basis over the last month of my constant panic attacks—he can’t hide that a part of him is screaming inside. I see it in his eyes when he watches me pace the floor. I hear it in his voice when he tells me to breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth. “I didn’t sign up for this!” is what he would shout if he could. “Go back to who you were before!”

The problem is that this is who I’ve always been.

And he’s retreating, but only on the inside. He can’t admit what he’s really feeling because he knows how poorly that would reflect on his character after months of insisting on the constancy of his love. He’s in a bind, which explains that look on his face. Even as he relaxes into the swing, he looks like a trapped animal, his unseeing eyes darting around the beach, his lips pursing and releasing, over and over again.

“So…” he begins, and I hold my breath for what he’s about to say. Is this it? Has he figured out a way to back himself out of his trap? “You have panic attacks because you’re afraid of having panic attacks?”

I exhale in relief, though annoyance prickles at the disbelief in the question. He didn’t say anything the first time I explained this to him, and I knew why. He thinks it’s absurd.

“Yes,” I say, my tone churlish again. “It’s a vicious cycle.”

He nods slowly. Suddenly he frowns. “I mean can’t you just…” He trails off, clearly doubting the wisdom of what he’s about to ask, but he doesn’t need to finish. I already know what he’s going to ask. I’ve heard this question before.

“Can’t I just not be afraid?” I ask. “What a great idea. I should just not be afraid. Then I won’t have panic attacks. Problem solved. Are you sure you chose the right field? You’d make a brilliant psychologist.”

I shut my eyes briefly at the end of my statement, hating myself for being so nasty, but I’m surprised when I open them to see a faint smile on Logan’s face. “That was pretty brilliant, huh?”

My chest aches at his self-deprecating warmth. I’ll miss it desperately when he’s gone. I shut my eyes, knowing I need to apologize. “It’s okay if you don’t understand panic disorder. Most people don’t. Not even my parents, and they’ve watched me have panic attacks my whole life.”

He frowns. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

I bristle at the question. Why didn’t you warn me what I was getting into? is what he’s really asking.

I try to sound calm when I say, “I told you I have anxiety.”

“Yeah, but this is next level anxiety.”

I stiffen. “You’re not entitled to know every detail of my life.”

He grunts, shaking his head. “This a pretty relevant detail for someone who loves you and wants to follow you across the country.”

My chest aches at his declaration, a mixture of pleasure and pain. A part of me knows he’s saying that mostly to himself, trying to convince himself that he didn’t make an epic mistake that night in my bed when we made all of our plans.

“Relevant because it would give you time to back out?” I ask, unable to help myself, wanting two contradictory things at once. Wanting him to admit that he made a mistake. Wanting to know with certainty that his words sound just the slightest bit hollow because he doesn’t even believe them himself. But also wanting him to insist that it’s still true. To prove that he loves me against all odds.

“What the fuck kind of question is that?”

“Maybe you’re having second thoughts after experiencing the full spectrum of my mental illness.”

He grabs my chin, twisting my head to face him. His eyes are hard. “Your panic attacks don’t change how I feel about you. I still love you more than I’ve ever loved anything in my life, and I love everything about you. I love that you’re weird and socially awkward, and I love that you told me I was weak on the night we met—”

I pull away from him, unable to take it. I can’t sit here and listen to him tell me that he loves the little crinkle above my nose when I’m looking at him like he’s nuts. Words like that are empty coming from a boy who’s in love with being in love.

After gripping the metal chains, I launch up from the swing and walk toward the ocean. I hiss when my toes hit the cold water, sending a rolling shiver up my spine. I hate that he brought me here. I hate that I’m forced to remember our beautiful beginning as we’re nearing the end.

Without seeing him, I sense his presence. I hug my arms around myself. “If you tell me you love my panic attacks, I might scream.”

He snorts so loud it echoes through the wind. “No worries there.”

My head jerks to face him.

“Oh, that’s right. I said I loved everything about you. My bad. I don’t love your panic attacks. You’re an epically bad hang when you have a panic attack.”

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