Page 17

She sighs, and even over the phone, I can hear her exasperation. “It’s always something with you, Addison. These invisibleproblems. The monster under the bed. Being painfully shy. This obsessive fear of how others perceive you. It’s too much!” I can practically hear her throwing her hands in the air. I clench mine into a fist at my side. “You need to get overyour fears. Overyourself.”

Her words are like a slap in the face, even though I’ve heard them many times before.

I clench my teeth, feeling the emotions sneaking up on me—the overwhelm, the fear. I’m afraid that if I speak, Iwon’t be able to stop it.

Mom sighs on the other end. “I’ll call you next week,” she says, and it feels more like a threat than a promise.

And then the call ends.

I squeeze my eyes shut, tears running down my cheeks. Even though they’re hundreds of miles away, I can still feel my parents’ pressure. Everything they want from me. Everything I keep failing to live up to.Breathe, I tell myself. Anger cuts through the haze, and I cling to it, hoping it’ll be my savior—my way out of here. I suck in a breath of air, resisting the urge to hurl my phone across the driveway, and instead, I let out a yell. What does it matter? I’m in the middle of fucking nowhere.

But the haze is still coming, like a wave, faster and faster. The anger is slipping away, but I cling to it, screaming one last time into the night, hoping against hope that it’s enough to reset me—turn me off and on again like a power button.

Because what’s happening next isn’t normal—as my mother likes to remind me.

I sink to my knees as the world caves in around me. It’s a familiar feeling and yet every time it happens it’s just as terrifying.

I clench and unclench my fists, gasping for air like I’m drowning. And I am. Iamdrowning. Iamdying. I am truly and fully convinced of it. Just like I am every time. The edges of my vision blur, and I fight to keep focus on the wood of the porch below me. Focus on the lines, the knots, the stains.

There’s a sound somewhere nearby. A voice. And then the creaking of the porch stairs. Confusion cuts through the panic just enough for me to register a word.

“Addison!”

Strong hands grip my upper arms, pulling me up, and it’s then that I realize I’ve curled myself into a fetal position.

“What’s happening? Are you okay?”

My vision clears just enough to recognize the person in front of me—down on his knees, his hands on my arms, his expression creased with worry.

No. No, no, no. Anyone but him. “Go away!” I grit out, pushing him with all my might. But despite my desperation, it doesn’t seem to do much to deter him.

“Addison, what’s going on?” Cruz asks, his voice firm but also … scared?

He’s scared. My resolve to make him leave suddenly falters. Because from the outside looking in, a panic attackisscary. It’s scary no matter your perspective. As hard as my body is trying to convince me that I’m dying, deep down, I know that I’m not. That this will all go away soon. That I just need to wait it out.

I shake my head, struggling for words. “I’m fine—I just—”

Cruz’s hands go from my arms to my face, holding me still, staring down at me like I’m a puzzle he desperately needs to decipher. “Do I need to call an ambulance?” he asks pointedly.

I squint my eyes shut and shake my head, torn between utter humiliation and sheer panic. But, as always,the panic wins.

A whimper escapes me as a fresh wave of panic spews forth. I keel forward, following the primal urge to fold in on myself. As if I can beat the fear from inside. But instead of feeling the rough wood of the porch below me, I meet resistance.

I open my eyes to find myself being folded into Cruz’s arms, pressed against his chest. I resist at first, but Cruz wins out. My shaking continues, but he squeezes me tight, subduing it to a degree. I clench and unclench my fists, hyperventilating as he begins to softly rock us back and forth.

“Breathe,” Cruz says quietly into my hair, his tone firm. Like how he’d ordered me to get on his horse the other day. Only this time, I want to listen. “Slow down.”

I focus on his words and doing as he says, forcing my chest to expand on my accord, not its own.

“Breathe,” he repeats.

He shifts slightly, his hand brushing against mine, and I reach for it, needing something—anything—to hold on to. His fingers thread mine, and I squeeze. Hard.

“Everything’s okay.” His voice is low and muffled by my hair, but just the sound of it is calming. Distracting. Pulling me from the depths of my soul. “You’re okay.”

And despite the fact that I wish it was anyone other than Cruz saying these things to me, holding me, rocking me back and forth, his words are soothing.

His presence is soothing.