Page 82 of Catch Me
Fuck.The question has my knees going weak. I do my best to push past the heat he’s reigniting in my body.
“I told you before that if we’re going to do this, we need to be discreet.”
“There is noif, Ivy.”
My eyes pop open to find Andreas standing directly in front of me.
“We’re doing this. The only question is, why have you been avoiding me for the past week? And don’t even give me that bullshit about schedule conflicts. I made time to call you, to speak with you. Where the hell have you been?”
My first instinct is to react with anger, defensiveness. But I know that would just be a bratty defense mechanism. I have to fight hard against that instinct when my palms grow sweaty from the anxiousness building inside of me.
“Ivy, what?—”
“I had a panic attack,” I finally say.
Andreas’ brows wrinkle. “When?”
“That morning after we … I had to go back to my apartment and my mother was there.” I clear my throat. “She’s, uh, she’s what you might call a trigger for me.” It’s taken me a long time to admit that. I don’t even think I’ve said it out loud to Dr. King.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, sincerity and regret dripping from his tone.
“It wasn’t a big deal,” I lie. The truth is I didn’t want him to see me like that. I always feel the most vulnerable in the hours and even days after a panic attack.
It’s one thing to tell someone I get panic attacks. It’s another for them to be a witness to it, even in the immediate aftermath.
Thankfully, that morning by the time Spencer dropped me off, my attack had passed and I was able to compose myself enough to work. But I’ve been avoiding Andreas since that day.
“You’re lying,” he says, cupping my face.
“Look at me, Ivy.”
I allow my eyes to meet his.
There’s an unwavering quality in his voice when he tells me, “You don’t ever have to be ashamed or embarrassed in front of me.”
Squeezing my eyes shut, I shake my head. His words penetrate my brain, but they mix in with those of my parents, of the taunts I received in the months after my public humiliation.
Oh God, those taunts.
Emails and messages from strangers, laughing at me, telling me I was useless and should kill myself all because I had a panic attack in public. Or maybe it was because I was a woman in public.
And now this very public figure is standing in front of me, asking me to be a part of his world like it’s not a big deal.
“Why are you shaking your head?” Andreas asks.
“It’s a bigger deal than you’re making it seem.”
“I know,” he agrees. It feels like a slap, as if he’s confirming my biggest fear, until he follows up with, “You thinking you can’t talk to me about thisisa big damn deal. I?—”
“Andreas!” The knock on his trailer door cuts him off.
A pissed off expression passes over Andreas’ face. “Who is it?”
Was that a growl in his voice?
“Uh, Amy. Michael needs to meet with you in the next five minutes.”
“I’ll be there.”
