Page 23 of Revolve
His gaze flashes before it softens like it does when he knows he’s wrong but still won’t admit it. “I miss skating with you.”
“You’re with Julia,” I remind him. There’s no way he means that.
“For now.” The look he gives me makes my ears burn. “Just remember that I’m here for you, Sierra. Always.”
I want to stampliaron his forehead.Where were you when I was crying in my hospital room until my throat felt raw? Where were you when I wanted it all to end? Where. Were. You?
I lock those screaming thoughts behind my calm expression, giving him only what I want him to see. Because even as I clutch the fragments of my past self, I refuse to give him credit for breaking me.
So I nod, turning into the arena, and changing into my skates for another solo practice. But I should’ve known it was coming the moment I stepped onto the rink.Not again.
“One hundred, ninety-seven, ninety-four, ninety-one …” I begin to count. My fingers tingle, a numbness setting in as my train of thought derails. My breath hitches, and another weight presses down on my chest, suffocating me. “Shit,” I whisper, the words barely escaping my lips. With trembling hands, I go to reach for my phone—the one I left on the bench. “No, no, no.”
I’d gotten a little cocky and decided to skip my pill. I tricked myself into thinking I didn’t need the crutch.
Today, the rink is deserted since there’s time before practices start, and I’m afraid of how long this pain is going to last. I desperately fist the fabric of my half-zip and pull it away from my chest, holding it there to get a breath in before I pass out. Sweat beads on my forehead and blankets every inch of my skin like I’m standing in the middle of an inferno.
It’s when I close my eyes and try to focus on something—anything—that I hear the squeak of the gate and a scratch of ice under shoes before warm hands cup my face.
“Hey. Hey, what’s wrong?”
Dylan.
My face must be pale, sweaty, and contorted. And Dylan fucking Donovan is the one to find me like this. If I could cut a hole in this ice and fall in, I would.
“Breathe. Talk to me, Sierra,” he says. So gently, so carefully, like he thinks I’ll shatter.
My skin grows hotter, and the embarrassment clings to me like the sweat soaking my skin. It could’ve been anyone, anyone buthim.Why is he even here?
For months, I’ve managed to handle my panic attacks on my own—save for Scarlett, who’s seen more than I ever wanted her to. It’s always been in places that feel big and then shrink. Like my dorm, where the walls nearly press in on me as I remind myself I’m not dying. Or that time I was on a park bench, knitting, when the panic was so tight in my ribs that I nearly drove the needle into my chest, desperate for something sharp enough to force my lungs open.
“Sierra,” he calls again.
“I—I …” The words are lost in a fit of heaving breaths and tears that sting my eyes when I wrench them open. This can’t be happening right now. Hyperventilating is one thing,cryingis so much worse.
“It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. Just keep breathing.” His brown eyes are so softer than I’ve ever seen them. It almost distracts me.
Dylan scans the empty rink, and when he’s going to move, I tighten my hold on his wrist. If I was in my body at all, I’d be mortified by how frantic I’ve become, but somehow Dylan understands the unspoken words; his hands remain firm on my face. Exactly where I need them to be.
Even with his touch, my thoughts pierce through like shards of glass.You should have stayed at home. Everyone was right. You’re weak now.
When Dylan’s hands shift to my shoulders, I startle, but he doesn’t let go. We glide to the boards. I’m sure he’s regretting coming here. I’m sure he has better things to do, like girls he actually likes.
It’s a wave, it’ll pass. Temporary.
I chant Dr. Toor’s words over and over. As soon as we reach the gate, a ragged sob tears from my chest. My balance wavers, and I trip over the rink edge, and not even a second later, Dylan’s arm catches me around my waist and pulls me back against his chest.
That’s when I give up and drop my weight, taking Dylan down with me. My tailbone hits the rubber flooring with a dull thud, and Dylan lands behind me with a grunt. The gate’s metal hook must be digging into his back, but he still doesn’t let go. Doesn’t let me feel the absence of his touch. Instead, he pulls me in, his legs bracketing mine in a protective cocoon. Then he pulls me in so my back rests against his chest.
“Focus on how my chest moves. Match my breaths, Sierra.” His deep voice grounds me like gravity.
When his arms come around my shoulders, I allow myself to hold on to his veiny forearms and sink deeper into him. He inhales an exaggerated breath, and I follow, holding it for four beats as he does, then breathing out. I can feel his heart beating against my chest, and with each breath, I unconsciously try to sync our heartbeats.
“That’s it. Just like that,” he whispers against my ear. “You’re doing so good.” His warm breath falls like a blanket on my skin. “Can you open your eyes and tell me five things you see?”
His voice is melodic, and it forces my heavy lids open again. He’s doing one of the grounding techniques I learned in therapy. There’s a fleeting thought somewhere in my chaotic mind that wonders how he even knows it.
“The trophy case, your gear bag,” I say, breathlessly. The dark blue bag with the Dalton logo and the number twenty is forgotten on the floor near the bleachers like he didn’t think, just ran. “The bleachers, an empty s-soda can, your shoes,” I say a little quicker now.
