Page 78 of Bad For A Weekend

“I love it. Thank you.” She puts it on. “Would it be fishy if I gave you a hug?”

I should say yes, but when have I ever been able to successfully tell her no? “No, I think a hug is appropriate.”

She slams into me, her small arms wrapping around my waist. “I’ll miss you.”

“Not as much as I’ll miss you. Listen to Hudson, and don’t make any stupid decisions.”

“I won’t.”

“I love you,” I whisper.

“I love you too.”

She waves as she loads into the car and drives away. All the air leaves my lungs, and my chest constricts painfully the second they’re out of view. I double over, wheezing and clutching the collar of my shirt. The panic attack seizes control, and I don’t fight it.

All it would take is me recognizing what it is and telling myself it isn’t real. But I don’t deserve comfort or air. Baylor was right when she said no one can protect her the way I can. In the middle of shit being sideways and no one knowing who’s behind the multiple abductions, I’m leaving her in the wind.

“Hey, man. You okay?” The pilot, pulling luggage behind him, approaches.

Pull yourself together before you end up in the back of an ambulance.

“Fine.” I wave a hand but don’t stand.

“Are you sure? You don’t look fine.”

“Anxiety. Just a panic attack.” I suck in a sharp lungful of air, going through the steps to make this end.

“Can I call someone for you?”

“No. I’ll be fine.” Finally, I straighten. “Thanks.”

“Your ride left you. Do you need a lift? My car is right over there.” He points to the other side of the tall fence.

Only now do I realize my asshole brother didn’t so much as secure an Uber for me.

“I live in Sherman Oaks,” I say because offering to give someone a ride in L.A. can mean an all-day detour if you’re not smart about it.

“I’m in Glendale, so it’s no problem.”

“Let me just get my stuff.”

I load my luggage into the pilot’s car, and it’s a quick fifteen minutes from Van Nuys to Sherman Oaks. My stomach sinks seeing my childhood home. I wonder what Hudson told them. If it was the truth, then Baylor isn’t the only one in for a verbal bashing. It doesn’t matter how old I get; I’m never too old for a talking-to.

“Thanks, man. Appreciate it,” I say as I exit his car and make the walk of shame to the front door.

I knock twice before walking in and am immediately greeted by two Springer Spaniels. Chuck and Marty were Mom’s attempt at healing me with animals three years ago. I’ll admit, they helped. Knowing Mom’s arthritis was too severe to walk them each day meant I had to get out of bed and get outside for at least twenty minutes.

“Hey, boys.” I give them each some attention before moving further into the house.

I find Mom and Dad having dinner in the dining room. It smells like roasted chicken and vegetables, making my stomach grumble. Hearing me come in, their attention is on me the second I walk in.

“Hey,” I say, tucking my hands in my pockets.

“Hi, honey. You’re just in time for supper. Sit down, and I’ll make you a plate.” Mom rushes into the kitchen.

“Dad.” I nod to him and take a seat across from him at the square dining table.

“Son,” he replies, shoving a bite of food in his mouth. His tone tells me Hudson informed him of what a disappointment I am. “You moving back in?”

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