Page 20 of The Retreat

“Probably the day before. He’s already annoyed he has to leave early, so I doubt he’ll come home any earlier.”

“Not even for like a bachelor party?” Colin asks diplomatically.

“We are already married. We aren’t having one.”

“Wrong.” Colin waves a finger at me.

I barely bite back a laugh. “You going to a strip club?” I keep my voice as diplomatic as he did.

“We’re going to a strip club.”

“No.”

Colin grins. “Want me to go alone without daddy to protect me?”

I growl, but before I can say anything, our server returns. We order, and I pray he’s forgotten about it.

“That’s it. This is my thirteenth reason!”

Colin looks up. “Huh?”

“My fucking mother.” I throw my phone and sit back, sliding down in my seat.

“What did she do?”

“She added a hundred more people to the guest list. A hundred fucking more people.” I melt off the seat, ending up in a puddle on the floor, wishing it would suck me in.She insists on the reception being as soon as possible and with every day it ticks closer, the idea of dealing with the nine hundred and thirty-seven people they invited makes my skin crawl.

“How many does that put us at?”

“Almost a thousand!” I’d be comfortable browsing painless ways to die on Reddit, but Oliver keyword blocked my damn phone and laptop years ago. Oliver wouldn’t let her plan any of his wedding, so she’s completely usurped mine.

“What?” Colin gets up to come sit across from me on the floor. “When did that happen? Wasn’t her initial list like three hundred?”

I don’t want to admit to him it has been piling on for weeks and I’ve ignored it, unable to deal with it. But with it less than a week away, I want to bury myself alive.

“I don’t know.” I have to get out of here. The walls close in, and I can’t breathe. I get up and leave without a word.

“Owen.”

I close my door, words not working. Nothing is fucking working. I can’t have this conversation with him. My world spins out, like I’ve sat back too far in a chair and begin the free fall I know will end with my head colliding with the floor.

But I keep falling.

My world becoming narrower and narrower.

My heart pounds in my ears, and my chest is on fire. I claw at my skin, trying to tear my ribs from my body, like more room in my chest will somehow relieve the panic.

And I know I’m overreacting. That might be the worst part of it for me. Some rational, far-off part of my brain knows what an idiot I am. I know I’m stupid and my body is losing its shit. I should be able to control my own fucking body. But I can’t.

I search for my meds, throwing things out of drawers.

Why the fuck isn’t Oliver here?

I stumble like I’m drunk and the floor moves away from my feet with every step I take.

My hands won’t close around anything. I get my iPad and call Oliver.

“Why aren’t you here?” I whisper-yell. “I can’t fucking deal with this.”

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