Page 36 of Those Two Words

She looks at her watch and the confusion on her face now matches my own.

“Who closed up last night?”

“It was Jo…” I answer, but my words trail off. Surely she’s not at the restaurant? If it is her, is she alone? Dread sits heavy in my stomach. Jo, more than anyone, knows why it’s not safe to be alone in the restaurant, and my mom must be thinking the same thing from the worry lining her face.

“I’m gonna go and check it out. I’m sure it’s fine and there’s a glitch in the system or something.” I’m already on my feet and halfway to the front door.

“Be safe and call me if you need anything. I’ll wait up.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t be long. Thanks, Mom.” I pull on my coat and boots before jogging out the front door to my truck.

The roads are quiet at this time of night, and I drive a little over the speed limit. The gnawing feeling grows with each minute that passes. I haven’t taken my dad’s old truck, so I’m able to call Jo’s cell phone through the Bluetooth, but I’m met with her voicemail each time. I try to assure myself that she’s asleep in her bed, a few blocks over, but my gut is rarely wrong.

Once the restaurant comes into view, the worry doesn’t disappear. It looks shut from the outside, but it still leaves me to question why the alarm has been deactivated. I park my truck, turn off the engine, and sprint up to the front door. My worries grow tenfold when I test the handle. Unlocked. I make a point of opening the door loudly and hope it scares off anyone who shouldn’t be here. It might be stupid of me to go storming in like this, but my mom knows I’m here.

When I’m met with silence, I shut the door behind me and keep the lights off. I take hesitant steps along the bar, looking for anything out of place. Everything looks as it should, but then something catches my eye. A pale blue phone case. Jo’s phone.

“Jo! Johanna! Are you here? It’s Patrick.” I don’t even stop to think before I’m shouting her name through the restaurant. If there are burglars, they know I’m here now. Storming into the kitchen, I look around but don’t find her. The same goes for the stockroom, restrooms, and office.

Maybe she left it here by mistake, but it still doesn’t explain why the building is unlocked. I’m about to go check the security footage when the smell of liquor hits me. Following the scent toward the bar, I pause when my boot crunches against something. Lifting my foot, I see shards of glass, and my breathing stops. The trail of glass leads me to a small puddle at the end of the bar, and as I look down the narrow space, following the river of what I presume is bourbon, my heart stops altogether.

A small, huddled form lies shaking on the ground, surrounded by shards of glass.

Jo.

I don’t think, I just do; never moving so quickly in my life. Doing my best to avoid the bourbon and glass, I crouch in front of her and run my hands along her arms, back, head, hands. Anywhere I can reach. It’s only when I lean in closer to her that I hear her raspy, uneven breathing. I know she’s not unconscious, and I can’t see any visible injuries, but I need to see her face. Her eyes.

With the gentlest of touches, because I’m still not sure if she’s hurt, I place my hands on her trembling shoulders. “Johanna, what happened?” She doesn’t respond and the shaking of her body ripples right through me. “It’s Patrick. Look at me, please.” Over and over, I repeat her name, tell her I’m here, but she doesn’t lift her head from where it’s tucked between her knees.

Her pants are soaked through, and I know I need to get her away from this broken glass, but from her unresponsive state, I’ll need to do it myself. I push back on her shoulders gently and encourage her to sit upright. When she finally raises her head, the panic-stricken look on her face guts me. It feels as if someone has reached inside my chest and has a brutal grip on my heart.

She looks almost catatonic, looking straight through me as her lips tremble with each harsh breath she tries to suck in. Only whenever she does, her eyes widen, like the air is getting trapped in her throat.

“Johanna, I need to move you, okay? I’m going to pick you up.”

When her hand claws at her chest, searching for that lost breath, I act fast. Scooping her up in my arms, I step over the small picture frame and broken bottle. Once we’re clear of the mess, I hold her close to me as I sit on one of the chairs, her legs hanging over my thighs. It’s then I notice she’s in a pair of flannel pajamas and sneakers. Did she come here straight from bed?

Bringing my other hand to her chin, I tilt her head back. If I thought her brightness was dulled before, it’s been completely doused out now. Her dark eyes swim with panic, drowning them. Her skin is clammy and pale. The tremors in her body haven’t lessened, and I don’t know what to do.

But I know I need Johanna back.

I’ll do anything to bring her back. Putting that light back where it belongs. Because sadness and terror are not emotions that should ever be on the beautiful woman breaking in front of me.

Not my Johanna.

The best I can do for her is let her know I’m here. Stroking my hand down her spine, I shush her quietly, rocking us from left to right. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

From where her face is pressed up against my chest, I just about make out her mumbling.

“Say that again?”

“Green,” she murmurs against my neck, so quickly I almost don’t catch it. But then her breathing intensifies again, and she repeats that one word. Green. Green. Green. Green. Green.

“Johanna, look at me, c’mon. I need you to slow your breathing.” I place her hand on my chest. “Feel me breathing. Feel that. Match my breathing.”

At first, I thought it was fear, and I suppose it is, but it’s taken hold of her and doesn’t want to let go.

Because she’s having a panic attack.

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