Page 98 of Red Flag
Opening my eyes, Nix was offering me a stick of gum. “Peppermint,” he said. “Like the tea you like.”
I took it eagerly and chewed. It cleared my airways, overwhelming, but not as overwhelming as the complete and utter loss of control.
My fingers felt numb.
“I’m here,” he said and leaned against the wall at my side to shelter me from those passing. The shadow from his cap forced me into a world of just us. “You do what you’ve got to, but know I am just here. I’ve got you.”
I kept chewing. Kept breathing. Kept answering maths questions.
He ran soothing strokes up and down my arm as my breaths settled.
“Let me know when you’re ready and we’ll grab you something sugary,” he said. “Iced coffee? Shot of caramel?”
I nodded and, this time, when he offered his arm, I took it.
“What was that?” I asked with a shake of my head. “The numbers.”
“Well…I wanted to be able to help, so I researched panic attacks,” he said with a decisive nod. “There are loads of different methods, like the 333, the 5-4-3-2-1 and focusing on hard maths questions can sometimes be helpful. Seeing as you like data so much, I thought you’d like the challenge of multiplication.”
I didn’t talk as he ordered my drink or as we sat down. I gave my chest some time to recover. That had been a small one, not as bad as many I’d had before.
“Do you get them often?”
I looked down at my coffee and nodded.
“Hey,” he said and placed his hand over mine under the table, on top of my knee. “You don’t need to be embarrassed. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”
“I don’t want you to see me like that,” I admitted and sucked on my straw until I was only filling my mouth with air.
“Tough luck,” he said. “I want to see everything.”
My chest was already weak, but that… knocked me for six. “What are our plans?”
“They’re just around the corner,” he said. “Take your time.”
But we couldn’t. A group of teenage girls had noticed Nix, even in his cap, and were all turning around, talking in hushed tones. Their phones were not-so-subtly being lifted to take pictures.
So I stood, and he took my bag before walking us to a glass high-rise building. A suited man welcomed us with a smile into the lobby, quickly pressing for the lift before approaching. “Mr.Armas, Miss Quinn.”
Nix didn’t correct him for calling him mister.
He’d brought us to a hotel. He hated my flat so badly that he wanted us to leave. My face was hot, my chest tighter than before with shame.
“Stanley,” Nix said with a nod before ushering me into the lift.
“What is this?” I asked as he waved a key card and we started to move up. He placed it in my hand.
“Well, you’ve got furniture, and…”
“Nix, mentally, I am incapable of a riddle right now.”
He pulled me to him for a hug, stroking my back with his hand. “I don’t want you to sell your things, they mean a lot to you. So, I found a way you don’t have to do that.”
The lift door dinged and opened into an entryway, chevron floors and bright, white walls leading to a black kitchen.
“As I said,” he said and gestured before us as we walked in, “you have furniture, and I don’t. So… you can live here.”
What was happening? He wanted my things? He wanted us to… to what? Move in together? In here? He…
