Page 76 of Someone to Have
“You know.” He uses one of his hands to mimic puking while the other one waves vaguely in front of his crotch area.
Right. I knew that but his reminder does nothing for my mood. “I’ll see you at the next rehearsal.”
He gives me a thumbs-up and turns toward his car—a late-model Volvo station wagon he told me his parents bought for him when he announced he was moving to the mountains.
The moment he’s out of sight, my confidence crumbles like wet sand. My heartbeat, which had been steady during our conversation, suddenly kicks into overdrive. My chest tightenspainfully as sweat beads along my hairline. The familiar tingle starts in my fingertips, spreading upward through my arms, while my vision narrows at the edges. My stomach is in knots as I pull out of the parking lot. I recognize the start of a panic attack, which I haven’t had for years. Mostly because I stopped taking risks that might induce one.
It’s simply nerves about going out for a drink with the guy I like, I tell myself. But that’s not true. It’s nerves about falling for the guy who’s all wrong for me.
I drive home on autopilot, one white-knuckled hand gripping the steering wheel while I force myself to take measured breaths. I know I shouldn’t be behind the wheel like this, but focus on holding the panic at bay just long enough to make it home safely.
After letting myself into the building, I climb the steps, holding tight with a death grasp on the railing. At the top of the stairs, I hear voices. Eric’s door is open. Music, laughter, and the smell of carne asada waft from inside. I keep one hand on the wall as I walk slowly down the hallway, telling myself I need to get a grip. The last thing I want is to collapse in a hyperventilating heap right outside Eric’s apartment. It feels like walking past a warm and cozy fire while I’m trapped outside in a blizzard.
“Taylor!” Mrs. Simon calls from the doorway. “We saved some food for you. It’s delicious. I can hardly believe it—we have a guy here who’s handy with a hammer, built like a brick shit house, and cooks like it’s his job, and some lucky woman hasn’t snagged him yet.”
I hear Rhett snort from inside the apartment. “Brick shit house. That’s hilarious.”
“Young man, I might be old, but I’m not blind,” Mrs. Simon admonishes. “Did you get that spoon and the ice cubes going like I told you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” comes the immediate answer.
“A guaranteed snow day. Ask Taylor.” She steps into the hallway and points in my direction. “She’ll confirm that icecubes flushed down the toilet and sleeping with a spoon under your pillow is more than superstition. It works.”
“It works,” I confirm but keep moving. “I’m going to skip dinner tonight. You should take the leftovers. The snow’s picking up out there. Might be time to hunker down for a few days.”
“Don’t worry, sweetie. Eric went to the grocery for me today. So nice to have a man around.”
My heart races because of how nice it is to have Eric around. Or maybe it’s just more of the panic attack. Hard to know the difference at the moment..
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” I call. My voice sounds thready, so I don’t stop. I can’t stop. I get to my apartment and unlock the door with shaking fingers, then stumble through.
I know how to deal with these sensations even though I haven’t had a panic attack since right after my mom died—the morning I was supposed to fly to San Diego for my final interview.
I ended up pulled over on the highway just outside of town for the better part of the morning. Back then, I didn’t have people like the women in my book club. There was nobody I felt comfortable calling to reveal my utter, pathetic weakness. Definitely no one from my family. It was the driving force that sent me into therapy, and I learned coping mechanisms.
Something about tonight has sent me back to that place where my anxiety is in control. I’d like to blame it on my stage-fright nerves. But that’s just an easy out. Deep down, I know what’s really causing this spiral. It’s the terrifying realization that this neighbors-with-benefits relationship is starting to feel more real than anything I’ve experienced. My feelings for Eric–the ones that are getting harder to deny–are ripping away not just my confidence, but my belief that I’m going to be okay when all of this ends.
I’m drenched in sweat but don’t bother to take off my jacket. I throw my purse and phone on the kitchen counter, takeanother step toward my bedroom, and then my knees give way, and I’m on the floor.
Okay, fetal position—that works. I’m safe. I’m safe. I repeat the words over and over.
There’s a noise behind me, but I can’t look up.
A moment later, Eric is on the ground next to me. I feel his warmth and breathe in his familiar scent.
“What the fuck,” he mutters, placing an arm around me. “Are you sick?”
“How did you get in?”
“The door was open.”
“I’m fine.” But my body shakes uncontrollably, my teeth chattering even though sweat pours down my skin.
“What happened? Was it rehearsal?”
“Can’t… no…can’t.” My mouth feels like it has five pounds of cotton stuffed into it. It’s choking me. I need to breathe. “Go.”
“Not a chance,” he answers, but he gets up and walks away. I feel his absence like a knife to my gut. I hear him opening cabinets and going through drawers, and then he’s back.
