Page 102 of Panty Dropper

CHAPTER 43

Billy

The digital numbers on my dashboard were blurry when I tried to focus on them. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and glanced back down. I was able to make out that it was three thirty in the morning. I hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before, since I’d stayed up to take Cheyenne to boot camp.

I was glad I’d done it, though, since I’d been able to see Reagan. Not only see her, in fact, but steal a kiss. Literally, I don’t think she knew what was happening until it was over.

I’d taken a nap after being out at Harlan’s but hadn’t been able to sleep past noon. My mind had been too busy replaying the look on Reagan’s face after I’d kissed her. It all happened so fast. I hadn’t planned on doing it, I just hadn’t been able to resist.

And now, here I was twenty-one hours later, heading to the boarding house in the middle of the night. When I’d jumped in the truck ten minutes ago, I hadn’t had any idea where I was going. I just knew I couldn’t stay in my house. But now, as I turned onto the main road, I knew exactly where I was headed.

My headlights shone on the road in front of me and I did my best to concentrate on not going over the white line that separated the lanes. Usually, I didn’t even give a second thought to something so automatic that it was basically as second nature as breathing. But right now I was focusing on every tiny detail of what I was doing to keep me from losing my shit.

I went over a bump in the road and glanced beside me as my mama’s journal bounced on the seat. When I’d gotten home from the bar after closing, I’d finally opened up the box. In the back of my mind, I’d known that it might be difficult to read what she’d written, but I hadn’t thought that it would be impossible.

I’d flipped to the last entry, which happened to be the date of her death, and was only able to read the first line before slamming the journal shut again. My chest constricted and it felt like the walls were closing in on me. I started sweating, I couldn’t breathe, and I saw stars.

I remembered experiencing the same things right after Mama died. I would be going about my day, eating cereal, riding my bike, playing down by the river, it could be anything, and all of a sudden my chest would feel like an elephant was standing on it, I’d get lightheaded, sometimes my limbs would go numb. At the time, I’d had no idea what was happening to me. The first time, I’d honestly thought I was going to die. But I didn’t. From then on I just white knuckled my way through it whenever it came on.

Years later, Cash brought up those spells. He asked me if I remembered having them. I’d completely blocked them out until my friend had mentioned the episodes. He told me that they must’ve been panic attacks. He’d suffered with them after returning from his last tour in Afghanistan. He’d had some fairly gnarly PTSD, and had seen a therapist to help him.

It was the only reason I had a clue what was happening to me now. My breaths were still short when I pulled up to Mrs. B’s. In the back of my mind, I knew that it was crazy to show up at Reagan’s door in the middle of the night. She hadn’t returned my calls the past few days, and had ignored me most of the morning.

I grabbed the journal off the seat and jumped out of the truck. If she slammed the door in my face, she’d have every right. But that was a chance I was willing to take. I took the steps up to the house two at a time and grabbed the hide-a-key that Mrs. B stored in the storm drain. She always locked the main entrance after hours, but every local knew where the spare was. Once inside, I strode down the darkened hallway toward Reagan’s room and when I arrived I knocked several times on her door. Just knowing that she was on the other side of it already had my body relaxing.

When I heard the latch being unlocked my heart rate sped up as an entirely separate anxiety flooded me. It wasn’t from my panic attack, it was from knowing that I was about to lay eyes on Reagan. The woman who, sometime in the past ten days or so, had stolen my heart, my soul, and I was pretty sure my sanity.

The door opened and a bleary eyed Reagan appeared, squinting up at me. “Billy, what’s wrong? What are you doing here?”

For a moment I couldn’t speak. She was wearing a gray T-shirt and cutoff sweats. Her hair was piled on top of her head, and her face was scrubbed clean. She was the most breathtakingly beautiful creature I’d ever seen.

“Billy? What’s wrong?” she questioned again.

I don’t know what I’d expected to find, or if I’d even thought of it at all, but the reality of my actions sunk in on me all at once. Disturbing Reagan when she had to be up in a few hours for work was a dick move.

“Sorry. Go back to sleep.” I started to turn but she reached out and put her hand on my forearm.

“Is that your mom’s journal?”

“Yeah.” I shifted back. “I tried to read it, but…”

“Come in.” She opened the door wider and motioned for me to enter.

I walked past her and the faint scent of lavender that her hair always smelled of wafted past me. I inhaled deeply, wanting to take it in and hold on to it. I never wanted to stop smelling it.

“Sit down.” She crossed to the small fridge stored beneath the coffee stand. “Can I get you something? Water? A Coke?”

“No. I’m fine.” Now that I was here, I was feeling a little bit ridiculous.

She grabbed a water bottle and flipped on the small light sitting on the corner desk before lowering down into a chair facing me. She tucked one leg beneath her and her knee brushed mine. Even through the denim covering my leg, I felt the brief contact and missed it when it was gone.

“So, what did you find out?” she asked expectantly.

“Not much. I only read the first line of her journal entry the day she died.”

“Oh.” She nodded. “Okay.”

“Can you read it?” It suddenly became clear to me why I was there. I couldn’t face this alone. I needed her to do this.

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