Page 76 of When We Were More
“Why the hell isn’t it on your person? Never mind, I’ll go get it.”
He moves down a few more steps.
“Stop. Let me go, and I’ll use it—” I pause and rest a few seconds “—as soon as I’m in the car. Please, Henry.” My voice cracks, and my chest is constricting more. “Talking makes it worse.”
I watch his face, and I can see the emotions as his brain wars with itself. I’m guessing he’s trying to decide between pushing me to let him help me with the hope of talking afterward, versus letting me go so I can get to my inhaler.
“This isn’t a bad one,” I say. “I’ll be fine.”
“Text me as soon as you’ve got the inhaler in your hand and have taken your first puff.” He growls the words.
I nod and walk away.
I beeline for the kitchen and am grateful I don’t know anyone hanging out there. I work hard to keep my pace steady, but not too fast, and I refuse to let another tear fall while I’m here. When I step through the door leading outside, my lungs open up a smidge, and I breathe a bit easier.
After I make it into my car, I grab my inhaler from my console and use it. With shaky hands, I pick up my phone and tap out a text.
Got it. Took first puff. Feeling a bit better already.
Henry: Okay. Text me when you’ve done the second one.
I lean back in my seat, resting my head. When it’s time, I use the second puff. I shoot off another text to Henry. I’m eager to leave.
Took second puff. I’m leaving now.
I feel improved enough to drive, so I put the car in gear and pull away. I force myself to drive at a normal speed, but all I want is to crawl into bed and sleep. Hopefully there I’ll get some relief from my overstimulated thoughts and emotions.
I get that I’m not handling this, but it hurts, and that took me by surprise. I’m trying not to think about how it felt hearing and seeing that woman, seeing Henry disheveled. I’m not ready to unpack it all. Part of me wishes I had let him explain because maybe he’d have said something that would take this pain away, that would make it all make sense. But another part of me is terrified he’d tell me a truth I don’t want to hear.
Then there’s the whole question of why the hell it matters if we’re just friends. Other than not telling me first, even if he did hook up with someone, he technically didn’t do anything wrong. My heart revolts at that thought.
When I’ve been driving for about ten minutes, fatigue overcomes me. God, I’ve got another twenty-five minutes before I reach home. I think for a second and then pull over. First,I read the several worried texts from Henry and type out a response to say I’m fine—the attack is over. I close the chain with him, then open a different one. I type out the message, hoping it’s not too late at night to send it.
Do you mind if I stay there tonight? I’m at a party and don’t want to make the longer trip home. It’s okay if not.
After I send the text, I pull back onto the road, cracking the windows to keep me alert. A minute later, my phone dings, and I glance at my dashboard to see what it says. I breathe a sigh of relief when it’s confirmed I only have to drive about ten more minutes.
I can hold myself together for that long. I think.
CHAPTER 28
Henry
When I got over the initial shock of what happened last night, it hit me that I actually let Matilda leave, hurt and crying, in the middle of an asthma attack. God, I’m an idiot. But she was skittish, and this feelings stuff is new to me.
She likely thinks I was messing around with Kira while she waited downstairs for me. I’m aware it looked bad. Really horrible. I saw Kira running her hand down her dress while she walked away from me. I didn’t realize why she was doing it until I saw Matilda standing there, hurt written all over her face.
The more I thought about it all after it happened, the more anxious I grew—panicked, almost. I was ready to tear out of my mom’s house like a bat out of hell to find Tillie. Hell, I was practically feral at that point, but my brothers took turns babysitting me to prevent me from leaving. They fed me some bullshit about needing to give her space. I shouldn’t have fucking listened because they don’t know Matilda like I do. They don’t know what she’s been through with that dickhead ex-husband of hers, and that her thoughts are likely spiraling unnecessarily.
I tried several times to reach her, but, other than the text telling me she was fine, she didn’t answer any of my calls or texts. I’m not surprised, but I hate that I haven’t been able to talk to her yet.
When I woke up at Mom’s at five o’clock this morning, with the girls safe and sound in their bedroom she has for them, I went to the kitchen and made a pot of coffee. A few minutes later, Mom came down and agreed to watch the girls so I could come talk with Matilda.
I glance down at the time on my phone, and it’s eight fifteen a.m. My anger rises, only rivaled by how worried I am. I’ve been sitting here in my truck, at Matilda’s house, since six a.m. She wasn’t home when I got here, and there are no fresh tire tracks in the snow. She never came home. I’ve been waiting here for hours, and she’s not answering her phone.
Eight twenty-seven. That’s when she finally pulls into her driveway, and half of the weight that’s been sitting on my chest lifts. The other half is still there, fueled by how upset I am with her and fear about where she spent the night.
I watch as she gets out of her car, climbs the porch steps, and is getting ready to unlock the house. All without even a glance in my direction. I hop out of the truck.
