Page 24 of Revolve
“Good girl,” he whispers, making goose bumps rise on my neck. “Now, how about four things you feel?”
I don’t listen to the voice in my head trying to pull me back, I listen to Dylan. “The rubber mats, my anklet,” I say, feeling it pressing into my ankle inside my skates. “Your arms and … your heartbeat.”
I also feel the sweat soaking my body, but I keep that to myself.
“Three things you hear?”
“The buzz of the lights.” I focus to find something else but the only thing I want to hear is his voice. “Your voice, and … I—I can’t hear anything else,” I say, and Dylan chuckles. This time the goose bumps that crawl on my skin are a result of his proximity and not the panic attack.
“That’s okay. Tell me what you smell.”
“You,” I say too quickly.
I feel his smile against my temple. We’re so close, and everything in my brain and body focuses on that detail. The other sensations flood from my body to welcome whatever the hell this one is. Something familiar, yet so foreign. The darkness in my chest ebbs the longer I stay in the moment, right here on the damp floor, with him. But it’s stillhim, and we don’t do this.
“I think I’m okay now,” I say. The silence is nearly suffocating as I sink back into myself. No one wants to be stuck mending something they didn’t break. Especially not some hotshot hockey player. Dylan’s not here to spend the day tangled with my anxiety. I can barely do that.
But when I try to move, his hold tightens. I hate how much my body likes it.
“We still have one more. Name one thing you’re proud of yourself for today.”
The question catches me off guard. I turn to him, but he only watches me with quiet patience. “I’m proud of … waking up on time?”
Dylan gives me a flat look. “No. Try again.”
“But that’s what I’m proud of,” I argue.
“That’s a cop-out answer. Your alarm woke you up this morning. Try again.”
Actually, it was the awful flashes of the Olympics, but I don’t tell him that.
“Fine,” I mutter. “I’m proud of …” The words stall on my tongue, stretching the silence too long.
Dylan scoffs. When I glance at him, he’s shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous.”
“What? How?”
“You can’t nameonemeaningful thing?”
“I was thinking!”
“For two minutes? It shouldn’t take that long.” He shifts, and I’m sure the mats are as uncomfortable for him as they are for me. “Sierra, I’m proud of you for getting on this ice today, and even on late nights when you shouldn’t be. And I’m proud of you for accepting my help.”
I can’t speak. Dylan must sense it because, after a heavy perusal of my face, he leans forward until his hands are on my skates. I jerk back to avoid bumping my nose against his cheek. His long fingers work the laces loose, and he pulls off the first skate. And now I don’t know if my face is hot from the panic attack or my green chameleon socks.
“Nice socks,” he whispers.
“They’re good luck,” I defend.
He hums in amusement and squeezes my ankle before placing my foot on the rubber floor. I can’t hold back the immediate sigh of relief, and I slump into him as he removes the second skate, giving the same squeeze, watching the anklet jingle.
“Is that for good luck too?” Dylan asks, touching the tiny charm.
“Used to be. My old partner gave it to me,” I say.
He only nods, and we sit there for a minute—or maybe an hour—but it still feels too short when he stands and pulls me up with him. I spin to face him, still cradled in his arms as he towers over me. I try to stand still, not wanting to force him to stay with me any longer.
I’m proud of you for accepting my help.
