Page 38 of Not Catching Love

“Thank you.” I hang up because I don’t have the energy for any of her shit tonight. Then I get up, get changed, and start a slow walk to work. I easily beat him there, and for the first time ever, I’m dreading each step. This used to be my one time to see him. My favorite and most hated part of the week.

Now that I’ve had that glimpse of the real Xander, the thought of seeing him so broken down is nauseating. He deserves so much better than this.

So I slip on my professional mask, unlock the treatment room, and wait.

It doesn’t take long.

“Can’t … can’t … breathe …” he gasps out as Seven helps him into the room and closes the door behind them. “Lungs … won’t work …”

Xander’s clammy, eyes unfocused and body trembling. I try to lock down the protective feelings that threaten to take over, but it’s harder today.

“On the bed.”

He’s trembling as he climbs up, close to tears and unsteady on his feet.

“The first thing I need,” I say, struggling to keep my voice even, “is for you to focus on breathing. Can you do that for me? Can you breathe along with me, Xander?”

He shakes his head. “C-can’t … Gonna … p-pass … out.”

“All I need is for you to try. One in. Let’s go.” I count him through it. Normally, it’s easier than this. Normally, being in the building is enough for him to let go of whatever panic has kicked in, but this time, it’s clinging to him. This time, the more I try to have him breathe, the more he panics.

“I know your lungs hurt,” I confirm. Whether they do or they don’t, in his mind, it’s real. I have to make sure he knows that I’m listening and not brushing him off, but while I hate that doubtful little voice telling me it’s always a possibility, I also know he does not have lung cancer. Or pneumonia. Or whatever issue his brain is projecting on him. I listen to his breathing every other week, and there’s nothing irregular there.

“I need to listen to your lungs,” I explain as calmly as I can through my growing frustration. “You need to take a deep breath for me, Xander.”

It’s like he can’t hear me.

“Hey!” I move so I’m right in his line of sight, and slowly, gradually, his eyes focus. “That’s it,” I reassure him. “I’m here. You’re okay.”

He sways a little.

“Deep breath. To three. Go.”

Finally, he makes an effort, and as his breathing steadies and his heart rate calms, I’m able to check his vitals. Lungs are clear, oxygen saturation is good, blood pressure within his normal range after an episode. No temperature. No irregularities. No other symptoms.

I repeat the information to him until it sinks in, and the tension leaves him. He slumps back onto the bed.

Somehow, my hand finds his, and I give it a squeeze. “There you are.”

Instead of the exhausted or sullen look I’m expecting, Xander sits up and turns an angry glare on me.

He snatches his hand away. “Yeah, fine. Good. Seven, let’s go.”

Seven’s mouth tightens, and we exchange a look.

I step between the two of them and drop my voice. “Are you okay?”

“Don’t act like you actually give a shit.”

Act? The urge to bite back is strong. “I know this is hard for you?—”

“Fuck off. You don’t know anything.”

“I know you need help.” Keeping my voice level is getting harder by the minute. “I know you don’t want to be here multiple times a week?—”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“I’ve been treating you for years. I know plenty.”

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