Page 1 of Not Catching Love

PART ONE

Chapter One

Xander

The blankets wrapped around me are getting suffocatingly tight. No matter how much I beg my brain to switch off, to relax and let sleep come, I only get more wired.

Like this itch in my brain. Just irritating enough that I can’t ignore the way it’s infesting me. There’s something about the house getting dark, and still that’s a perfect recipe for the terror that lives in my head. The pathetically frequent loop of my friends and all the things that could go wrong during their day tomorrow presses on my chest so heavy and real it makes my eyes prick.

Madden tripping and falling on a big pair of garden scissors.

Rush being hit by a bus he’s waiting for.

Molly … well, he works from home, so the risk is lower but not nonexistent. He could electrocute himself on a toaster. Fall down the stairs. Befriend some wild animal that bites him and transmits a fatal disease.

Then I’d never have my Molly again.

It’s getting harder to breathe now.

My skin feels like it’s rattling, and it takes all my feeble willpower to stay put in bed.

I’ve reached the point in my anxiety spiral where I usually scramble from my room and hunt down one of my roommates. Seven and Molly are first on my list because they’ll squish me between them and help scare some of the scaries from my brain. I know theywantto help me too, but more and more lately, it feels like I’m overstepping. Like, they’ve got them, and I’m … someone to deal with.

That clawing in my chest gets clawier, and I throw off my blankets and get up. It’s as far as I’ll let myself go though. I pace toward my door on socked feet and then back again, trying to talk myself back from the edge. Trying to remember that everything is fine, and my roommates are okay, and everyone is breathing and alive ando-fucking-kay.

I suck in a breath that feels like glass shards and move over to my window. The chia pet sitting there is a cute clay unicorn pot with rapidly growing plant hair and was gifted to me by one of my roommates. Madden always spoils me with presents, but as the most recent Bertha boy—what we call all of us who live in Big-Boned Bertha house—to find his forever love, I can feel him pulling away too.

They all are.

Every single one of my roommates has a partner, and all I have is stupid anxiety.

My own personal ball and chain that’s less of a ball and chain and more of a cage that looms over me. And maybe it’s less of a husband and more of a boogieman. I’m constantly waiting for that shit to jump out and drag me into its grasp.

Like tonight. Like most days.

Will this fear that we’re all going to die morph into more? I’m usually only one bad thought away from a debilitating panic attack, so why not tonight?

I run my fingertips over the chia pet’s grass hair and try to ground myself against the weight clogging my chest. There’s a small part of me that hopes that it does kick in because then I’ll get Seven and Molly’s attention without having to pathetically climb into their bed.

And I’ll see Derek.

It’s both a terrifying and exciting thought.

Derek is my angel. The nurse who’s always there to deal with my stupidity. I hate him seeing me during a meltdown while simultaneously craving his presence. When things get too loud and overwhelming, he’s there. He’s my calm, my anchor, and I’m confident I’m head over heels in love with him.

Too bad he doesn’t see me as more than that sick guy he has to look after sometimes.

With a surge of panic that he might suddenly walk into my room, I dig at my hair, trying to get it into place. Trying to make it look perfect.

A car passes quietly out on the street, headlights cutting through the shadows of the leafy front yard. It’s that little burst of humanity that has some of the chest-heavy anxiety shifting.

I guess that means no Derek tonight.

The disappointment at not getting to embarrass myself in front of him is ridiculous.

I’m sure if I got back into bed, the death stress would come again because I’m not exhausted enough to pass out. This whole having to sleep every night thing is bullshit, and maybe if people needed less of it, I’d have fewer episodes.

Or maybe not.

---