Page 17 of Bad For A Weekend

He’s worried about how it will look for him, but I couldn’t care less. I need space and some goddamn air. Where is all the air? I gasp, clawing again at my throat, begging the tightness to go away so I can take a full breath.

“I’m calling your dad.” His shoes crunch along the gravel on the side of the road.

“Owen!” I yell.

He rushes back. “What?”

“Don’t call him. Please,” I beg. Between Veronica and my abduction, he’s been through so much. He doesn’t need to worry about me losing my shit each time I leave the house.

The car sinks a little when he sits on the bench seat, his feet above my head. Why won’t he leave me alone for one goddamn minute so I can get ahold of myself?

“It’s a panic attack, right?” he asks quietly but doesn’t wait for an answer. “I’ve had those. I know it feels like the world is ending, and there’s nothing you can do about it. They make it hard to breathe, and the fear grips you so tight, you think you’re having a heart attack.”

Something about his calm tone or how he’s describing exactly what I feel makes my heart slow its incessant pounding in my chest.

“And the less you can breathe, the worse the panic gets. It’s a vicious cycle.”

“Yes,” I gasp out, my voice hoarse.

“It’s rough.”

Owen is the first person I’ve met who seems to know what I’m going through. The therapist Dad has come over twice a week speaks to my logic, which is unhelpful because logically, I know what’s happening to me, and I know it’s not real. That’s not the problem.

When I have a panic attack, my crazy takes over, and there’s no rationalizing with my crazy.

Each night, I stand on my balcony, and all I can think about is how many people are out there who could hurt me. The man who succeeded wasn’t anyone special. He wasn’t some military specialist with training. He was an average guy who sleeps on the streets and has a drug addiction. If he could get to me, surely there are tons more who could, too. But maybe they’d do it better. They wouldn’t get caught.

That thought sends me into a downward spiral, followed by me popping one of the anti-anxiety pills the shrink prescribed and then I pass out. Only to repeat the same process each night.

“Do you still get them?” I ask, desperate for him to say no and give me hope.

He blows out a breath. “Sometimes.”

Knowing if it hasn’t gone away for him, it probably won’t go away for me makes liquid grief stream from my eyes. I wanted to hear this was temporary, that I won’t be like this forever.

“But it’s better now. I know how to handle them, and when I feel one coming, I can usually stop it before it gets worse.”

“Please don’t feed me a bunch of psychology crap. Not right now.”

“Nah. Nothing like that. It’s more just acknowledging it and not fighting it.”

For some reason, I trust his advice and take a minute to admit what’s happening in this moment.

Okay, panic attack, you win. Go ahead and do your thing.

To my surprise, when I’m not actively attempting to stop it from happening, the fight going on inside me comes to a halt. Like all the little soldiers waging war inside me give up when there’s nothing to battle.

“That’s better. Now get up here so I don’t feel like I’m talking to myself? People keep walking past and looking at me like I’ve lost my marbles.” A hand appears in front of my face, his offering of help. “Please?”

I stare at the rough pads of his fingertips and the black cuff of his dress shirt. I don’t feel ready to leave my little hidey-hole, but Owen has effectively stopped my trembling, and my breaths are coming easier now. I guess I can give him this.

I place my hand in his, and he doesn’t let go as he crouches and steps out of the SUV. I don’t need his help to get up. Matter of fact, it makes it more difficult. But his strong hand enveloping mine feels good, so I hold tight as I scoot myself out.

“There we go,” he coos sweetly. It almost makes me laugh because of how strange it sounds coming from such a gruff man. “You all right now?”

“Getting there.” I slump on the bench and prop my throbbing ankle back on the center console.

“Did you hurt yourself?” As if realizing our hands are still joined, he pulls away, and I miss the contact immediately.

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