Page 20 of Beneath the Hood

Letting her focus on me so she doesn’t focus on the chaos.

It’s not until every last person is gone, our syncopated breathing matching the heavy beats of our hearts, that I let her go.

She tenses the second my fingers leave her face.

My hands fly back to her jaw, bringing those wild eyes to stare into mine. “Tell me what you need.”

Her head shakes back and forth, the movements small, short, and frantic. Like she’s trying to control the tremors that so obviously ooze from her nerves.

Those pouty lips part, but instead of speaking out loud she mouths silent words, and when I look closer I realize they’re numbers.One, two, three.

She’s been doing that since I walked in, and it hits me that this is her coping mechanism, which means this is something that happens often enough where she has methods to try and maintain control. My heart sinks at the thought.

“You can get through this,” I say.Just like I used to with my dad.

Her eyes squeeze shut, nostrils flaring as she breathes in deep.

“Good. Concentrate on your breathing. Stay in the present.”

I’m not sure that what I’m saying applies to the current situation, but I’m going off what I know, hoping the sentiment behind the words is enough to help keep her centered.

Her fists clench at her sides, knuckles turning white from the force.

“I need… I need to go change,” she finally stutters out.

I step forward. “Okay. Do you want me to come with you?”

She nods sharply, her face scrunched. “Yes, I…” She opens her eyes and exhales a shaky breath, taking a step back, leaving my palms to grasp the air. Her fingers stop digging into her hands long enough to run through the strands of her hair. “Yes.”

“Okay.”

She nods again, her shoulders relaxing the slightest amount, and the pounding in my chest eases along with them. But then a clock from somewhere down the hall chimes nine times, and like a light switch, her eyes squeeze tight once again.

My stomach jumps, her anxiety reaching out and tightening the knot in my gut.

I won’t lie, I’m nervous. Scared that the small tricks I remember—the things my dad’s therapist taught me—won’t be enough. That I won’t be able to help her through whatever the hell this is.

But I have to try. I won’t be able to walk away from this situation. Whether she breaks apart or gains control, I’ll be here to mend the frays.Someoneneeds to be.

“I need to get out of this room.” Her voice is stronger than it was before, but I can practically taste the tension off her words.Still, she doesn’t move. Instead, her chest heaves, rising and falling faster with every second, and I can see the war being waged in her brain, wanting to go, yet being frozen from hysteria.

So, I do the only thing I know, without a fucking clue whether it will help.

I tell her what I used to tell my father.

And even though my nerves shift higher with every clench of her fist, I keep my voice steady. Strong. Controlled. “It’s not the place that’s bothering you, Blakely. It’s the thoughts.”

The words fly out of my mouth, whizzing by her ears, and for a moment I’m convinced they’ve missed her completely. But eventually, she nods. And then she starts to mouth the words. Over and over, her fists once again white-knuckling against her sides.

Relief pours through my veins that she heard me, that it seems to be making at least a little bit of difference. My fingers reach up, twisting the chain on my necklace, giving her space and praying like hell she knows herself enough to know what she needs.

But I see her.

My eyes are my weapon as I slice her surface, searching for what she hides down deep, desperate to meet the real Blakely. To learn who she is by watching how she acts in the fragile moments.

Guilt weaves through my chest, realizing I’ve spent all my time so worried about keeping her at a distance that I’ve never cared enough to actually look. I thought I had her pegged from the second I met her, convinced I didn’t like what I saw.

Nausea rolls in my gut. That’s not me. That’s not who I strive to be as a person. I’ll stay and help her through her panic, and I’ll keep coming back to make sure she’sseen. Not because I’m craving to spend time with her, and not because I feel responsibility, but because I know what it’s like to be lost in your head—to feel so alone while you’re spinning at its mercy. I know what it’s like to spiral so fast and so deep you fear you’ll never see straight again. Iknowthe pain of hiding your grief, and doing it so well, so convincingly, that no one realizes they should be looking to see if it’s there.

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