Page 17 of Your Rule to Break

“Are we on for golf next week?” I ask my dad. We try to get out a few times a month, just the two of us.

My dad is looking at his phone, not paying attention.

“Chris, did you hear Zack? Are you golfing next week?” my mom repeats.

My dad’s cheeks tint pink before he puts his phone face down. “Ah, sorry. Next week won’t work. I'll check my work calendar.” He offers a smile.

He seems distracted, but who am I to talk?

Chapter 11

Emilie

Why can’t I takea full breath? I throw the blankets off and practically jump out of bed. Tapping my phone screen, it says it’s after midnight. I’ve been lying here for over an hour yet I’m nowhere near sleep.

I can’t put my finger on what’s wrong, but I don’t feel right. It’s like my skin is a size too small, and there’s too much pressure on my bones. I feel like I'm sideways in a world that’s completely upright.

I walk through the apartment; the rhythm of my steps is consistent, a stark contrast to my erratic heartbeat—it frantically flutters and flips. My limbs feel weightless, kind of how I'd imagine space to be.

Space. I hate space. Oblivion. Darkness. So much nothing. Nothing to hold on to.

Fuck. This is taking a turn for the worse.

I bite my lip hard, needing to feel the sting. It’s there in a reassuringly painful way. My brain tries to run but keeps stumbling, getting stuck on the things that I hide from during the day. The thoughts I’m able to manage, most of the time, and tend to only come out at night. I pinch the skin of my forearm, like how I wish I could squeeze the intrusive thoughts which are a rabbit hole away from bringing me to my knees.

After countless laps around the living room and kitchen, I pause and check my pulse.Count and feel. Count the heart beats, feel the blood move through my body.

I am here.

This is real.

I am safe.

I grip my phone, my safety net—what if I have to call 911? Tapping the screen, I see that only three minutes have passed, even though it feels like it’s been almost an hour. Fuck. It feels like I’m floating.

Sitting on the edge of a chair in the living room, I put my head between my knees. I suck in as much air as my lungs will allow and hold. Each second that passes, I keep the breath, and my heart rate slows from a sprint to a skip.

I try to take a deep breath but the corners of my mouth resist—the skin cracking and strained. My tongue pushes against the roof of my mouth, then my lower lip, and it feels like there’s no room for it. Is it swelling? Can I swallow? Is this what an allergic reaction feels like?

My mind runs through the last few hours, trying to find the culprit. The traitor.

The trigger.

When I come up empty on a reason why, I practically jog into the kitchen, desperate for cold water. My hand swings the cabinet door open, definitely too hard, and I grab the first glass I can find.

Shoving the glass under the faucet, I only let it fill up halfway before chugging it. The tightness in my chest lessens with each swallow, proving my throat isn’t closing. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

Buzz. A text message comes in.

Zack

look at this shit

He sends an article, and while I’ve seen this picture in twenty different versions, the headline is a new one:Zack Andersen Fumbles His Look While Date Scores Big.A perfect distraction. It’s like he knew I was spiraling.

I skim the article from our night at Trivium, which calls out Zack for wearing something boring, lazy, and uninspired. Meanwhile, my outfit gets 4.5 red-bottom shoes, indicating a successful outfit.

it wasn’t boring

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