Page 67 of The Perfect Love

“Well, I appreciate the invitation, and I’ll definitely be there.”

And to prove that I mean it, I grab the response card and start filling it out.

“Good. A bunch of the girls will be getting ready with me, so I’d love to have you for that too.”

“Text me all the details.” I hand her the response card with a smile. “So, is wedding stuff why you’re stressed?”

“Part of it. As great as it sounded to have my wedding on my grandparents’ property in the fall with the leaves changing and everything, it’s been a lot to organize mid-semester. We’re taking our honeymoon the week after, so it’s been a lot to work out with professors and plan ahead. So far, they’ve all been great, but then Aaron’s having surgery in early November, so we’re trying to figure all that out too.”

“What’s the surgery for?”

“His hand. He broke it—” She takes a deep breath. “He ended up with a bunch of microfractures in his fingers from punching the guy who assaulted me.”

My heart aches for her. Were they together at the time? That all sounds awful.

“He didn’t realize there were breaks—and didn’t initially go to the doctor—so he’s dealt with the pain for a long time. I’m hopeful the surgery will help. And trying not to get my hopes up too high that he’ll finally be able to pitch again.”

“Pitch?” I ask, my heartbeat ticking up.

“Yeah. I must not have mentioned that. He was an amazing pitcher, and he misses it. He coaches for the college team because it’s a part of him. Like it is with all the boys.”

“All the boys?” I squeak.

Oh no. Oh no, no.

Her brows pinch together. “Yeah. Aaron, Joel, Miles, Trevor and a few of our other friends have played together for years. I’m surprised Trevor didn’t mention it.” Then she winces. “Shit. Of course he didn’t. I—Chelsea, are you okay?”

That’s a great question.

But if my nausea, clammy palms, sweating, and the pain in my chest are any indication… no. I’m not okay. Because Trevor… Trevor plays baseball? And we—I—fuck.

“Come with me.” Rae grabs my hand and drags me down the hall toward the break room, only stopping long enough to stick her head into the door of the counseling area. “Hey, Levi, can you cover the front for us for a few minutes?”

“Sure thing.” The younger intern makes her way out to the front, and Rae’s still dragging me.

Am I breathing?

My chest is heavy.

It’s been months since I’ve had a panic attack. But this?

Rae guides me into a chair, gets me a cup of water, then sits down opposite me and wraps her hands around mine.

“Breathe with me. In through your nose. Nice and slow.”

I try, but my breath hitches halfway through.

“Hey, you’re safe here. You’re surrounded by caring women, two armed security guards, and locked doors. Look at me. You’re safe. Let’s try another breath.”

I nod, and this one comes easier.

We take a few more before the slightest touch of calm settles in. I grab the water and take a long sip, the cool liquid calming me a little more.

“Do you want to tell me what’s going on? What just triggered you?”

I open my mouth, but then close it again. Take another breath. I won’t feel shame for this. It wasn’t my fault. I want to learn to be more open about it—to talk about and use my story to help others. My story itself isn’t where this reaction is coming from, but I want to get it out to Rae. I want to let her in.

“The guy who raped me was—said he was a baseball player.”

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