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“Hi. What would you like to order?” The old woman asks with a smile and eyes focused on me.

My mouth goes dry, and my hands turn clammy under her undivided attention.

Human interaction makes me nervous. The reason why I don’t order food is because picking up a phone and reciting my order gives me chills. They ask so many questions and you have to reply quickly. It makes me nervous. I always hang up and ask myself why I’m like this.

“Girl, what do you want?” she asks in a stern tone, making my pulse accelerate.

Oh my God.

She must think I’m crazy. I’m not.

I just don’t like ordering.

Heath looks down at me in confusion.

I get it. It’s not every day people freeze at the counter before ordering because they get anxious.

God. He must think I’m a freak.

Bending down a little, he asks in a quiet voice, “What’s wrong?”

“C-can you order for me?” I beg him with my eyes while fidgeting with my fingers.

Instances like this I need to have something to ground me. Something to keep me busy, otherwise I start to grow restless. My fingers are the perfect option to do something.

He studies me for a moment, then asks, “What do you want?” He notices my hands. I don’t care if he sees my turbulent state. I’m too stuck in my head to care.

I tell him and with a nod, he says, “Get a table.”

Luckily, I spot a booth in the corner of the room and quickly claim it. I put my phone on the table, but it clatters as my hands shake. Taking a deep, long breath I put my hands under my thighs, but my leg starts bouncing.

Oh no. This can’t happen here.

Why?

Just why?

Take control of yourself.I tell myself, but those words hold no power over me.

Suddenly my breathing shortens to shallow breaths, and my throat begins to close around me.

Oh no.

Why is this happening here?

Why? Why now? Why here?

One side of my brain yells those thoughts and the other shoots logical reasoning to get this under control. Trapped in my breakdown I don’t register when a hand settles on my thigh and clamps it down in a vice-like grip.

Heath stares at me with a puzzled face and curious eyes that feel like they’re evaluating me. Under his stare, I feel emotionally naked.

I gape at him.

“It’s okay.” He applies more presses until my leg stops bouncing. Tiny tremors race through my legs.

“I’m fine,” I say, but he doesn’t take his hand away from my thigh.

After a minute those tremors turn into sparks that flow straight to my stomach. A ball of heat forms.

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