Page 117 of Altius
Just a picture.
The oval of a plane window. Jenna’s slender fingers silhouetted against the early morning haze. Thumb, pointer, and pinky extended, making the hand sign forI love you—except her fingers were angled as if moving diagonally.
Flight.
Unprepared for a body check of nostalgia, my emotional control slipped, making my spine sag until my shoulders hit the gym mat, leaving me staring at the ceiling.
Jenna was willing to give me a second chance.
I thought she would deliberate for weeks and ultimately decide to maintain our current distance because she could barely stomach my presence. My very existence was a burden to her.
The possibility of forgiveness was too much to comprehend.
Sharp, discordant breaths made it impossible to calm down.
No, focus. What could I see? Five things. I needed five things.
Chunks of ice clung to the windowsill. The treadmill belt looked too thin to be trusted from this angle.
That’s it. Don’t think about Jenna avoiding your gaze. Or how hard she cried after you hit her with your pharmacology textbook.
Three more things. Find three more things. But what else was there—except unfettered anguish?
The door opened.
Oh, that was one sound. How many more did I need?
“What happened?” A worried Wyatt knelt beside me, cradling my face in his calloused palms. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” I lied.
My wounds were too deep, too close to the core of my psyche, to be seen by the naked eye. But I didn’t have the energy to explain that to him—because I couldn’t breathe. My vision wavered. The ceiling spun.
A panic attack. I was having a goddamn panic attack.
All because Jenna didn’t hate my guts.
“Morgan, baby,” Wyatt crooned, urging me to sit up. “Talk to me.”
I had no words. No rational thoughts, either. All I could do was shove my phone at him.
He scrambled to catch it, then stared at the photo, jaw clenching and unclenching, brows knitting tighter together.
And then, without exchanging another word, Wyatt wrapped me up in his strong arms and endless patience, holding me tight and purring, rocking us back and forth until my heart stopped stuttering and my breathing evened out.
Until I was calm. On the verge of submission. Completely at his mercy.
Wyatt kissed the center of my forehead. “Better?”
“Mm. I think so.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“I—I don’t know. If I do… It’ll all just come pouring out and never stop.”
“So what?” Wyatt shifted, resting his back against the wall, pulling me more fully into his lap. “It’s not like we have anywhere to go today.”
If he had walked in a few minutes later, I would have been able to resist. Could have feigned nonchalance before detonating in the shower. Or ruined something in my nest.
