Page 68 of Something Borrowed

I put my drink down and adjust my focus to the space around me. The room feels very full now. The temperature has risen, as has the volume of the music, and people’s conversations are beginning to seem loud and far too close. Someone bumps into my chair, and I lurch forward, banging my elbow on the table. They offer a laughed apology, but my heart is hammering. I run a finger along my shirt collar, feeling hot and sweaty. My pulse continues to race, and I groan silently.Not now. I try to take slow breaths like my therapist taught me—breathing in for four and out for four—but it’s not helping. The whole room feels like it will fall into me, and my breathing is starting to jag.

That quickly, I’m on the edge of a panic attack. I have them sometimes at events like this, but I haven’t had one in ages. I’ve discussed them with my therapist many times— too many stimuli coming at me in one go cause a sensory overload, which triggers my fight-or-flight impulse. I know it’s because I’m tired tonight, and my brain, as usual, is having to work hard to process all that’s happening in the room. But acknowledging this does not help my feelings of anger and embarrassment.

I suck in a breath. It feels jagged and too short, like I can’t get enough air. I fucking hate feeling like this. I hate being different, and I particularly despise that I will have to ask someone to help me find a quiet spot to try to recuperate. It’s at times like this that I feel at my most isolated.

I close my eyes, focusing on my breath while spinning the leather bracelets on my arm. Raff and I bought a set from a market when we were eighteen—I wear two and he wears two. When I first started having these attacks, I found that spinning them helped a little, but tonight, nothing seems to help as the music gets even louder. My heartbeat thunders in my ears, and I take in a deep gasp of air.

“Stan, can you come and help me with something please?” Raff’s voice is like a lifeline in the darkness.

I draw in a shuddering breath at the feel of his hand on my shoulder. He’s always careful to touch my shirt at times like this, as my skin can feel painful.

I nod, unable to form words, and climb to my feet, swaying a little before grabbing my cane. He wedges his hand under my arm, and I follow his guidance.

“Where?” I get out.

“Manager’s office. It’s got doors onto a private patio. You can be quiet there.”

“His office?”

He gets me. He always has. There’s no need for explanations with Raff. “I shot him fifty quid in case this happened.”

He stops me, and I hear a door open. He guides me forward, saying, “There’s a chair in about three steps on your left.” My cane catches the edge of the chair and I fall into it gratefully. The door shuts, muting the music. There’s a click, and I feel cool air on my face.

“Okay. The doors to the patio are open, and I’ve turned on the fan, too. Breathe, baby.”

As a breeze tugs at my hair, I lift my face into it, visualising the noise and the heat being carried away. I spin the ring on my thumb while I take a proper breath for what feels like the first time in the last twenty minutes. It’s a chunky platinum ring thatRaff bought me with his first paycheck. There’s a chain on it that I can spin around, which helps my brain turn off.

Raff settles next to me. He puts his hand next to mine on the chair’s arm, so I know he’s near. He says nothing, because he knows I can’t string any words together. I hear the familiar sounds of him retrieving his phone, the rustling of fabric and soft breathing. He’s probably doing what he usually does at times like these—reading a book on his phone.

Gradually, the panic eases, and my breaths come more naturally. Raff stays silent, but his comforting presence eases the crawling sensation on my skin. He’s the only person who I would ever let see me like this when I’m weak.

Finally, I stir. “How did you know?” I mutter, my voice hoarse as if I’ve been screaming instead of locked in silence.

“I know you very well, Stanley. Enough to recognise when you’re not feeling good. Better now?” His voice holds its usual warmth.

I nod, and there’s a rustle and a rattle. A familiar metal tin is pressed into my hand. “Here you go.”

I take a couple of mints—he always carries them—and suck on them. My stomach is often upset during one of these episodes, and the peppermint soothes it.

“Water’s at ten o’clock on your right,” he tells me.

I nod, and we fall silent again as I drink the water and eat a few more mints.

“Fuck,” I finally say, exhaling a long, deep breath.

There’s a rustle as he shifts in his chair. He can tell it’s alright to talk now.

“That was a bad one, babe.”

“I know.” I pause. “I fuckinghateit,” I burst out. Sometimes the rage inside me feels like it could split my skin with fury.

His hand comes down on mine, and my fingers twine with his.

“I know,” he says simply. He doesn’t offer me platitudes or say he’s sorry, and in his quiet acceptance and simple companionship, I don’t think I have ever loved him more. I take a shaky breath.

The thunderous knock on the door makes me jump. “Shit,” I gasp, feeling for the table and putting the bottle of water back on it. I wipe my hand where the water has spilt on it.

I hear Raff jump up, and the door opens, letting in the sound of the music. “Do you have to hammer on the door like that?” Raff demands.

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