‘Hey,’ he says, lifting his hand to my chin. ‘Look me in the eyes. Do you think you can speak?’
I manage one feeble head shake, choking on the tears that have started to run down my face. If I could grapple together even one measly word, I could let him know I can get through this without his stupid help. But my chest keeps tightening and my breaths overwhelm me, punching my nervous system as I continue to shake.
‘OK, that’s fine.’ He lightly grabs my arm. ‘We’ll just do this with head shakes and nods, OK? Has this happened before?’
I nod, gasping for breath. Yes, it’s happened before, but not for years at this point. I haven’t had a panic attack since final-year exams, and I’ve only had one this bad once in my first year of university. It is just my luck that one would pop up on a day like today, in front of him.
‘And do you have a preferred way of getting through these?’ he asks.
I shake my head, shrinking further into my huddled frame. I haven’t done this in years. I can’t remember how to act. I thought I’d left these attacks sealed in a box next to my Crocs and my overplucked eyebrows.
‘OK, cool, we’re going to try something, but I need you to listen. First, let’s breathe together. Copy me– in and out.’
He looks into my eyes as he delivers the instructions, steadying me softly as he guides me with his actions. I fix my pupils on his and mirror his movements, our chests rising and falling to the same silent rhythm.
Oh-so-slowly, the air starts to calm in my chest, frantic rushes declining into much calmer sweeps.
‘Good,’ he says, cradling both of my arms. ‘Now tell me which letter I’m drawing.’
I focus all my energy on the feel of his thumb as it traces a pattern through my chiffon sleeve. He keeps his dark brown eyes firmly on my face as his finger swirls the letter over and over again.
‘A.’ I muster a response, the word a pathetic tremble.
He smiles faintly, nodding with pride. ‘And now?’ His thumb switches direction.
‘I,’ I whisper, feeling my spine unfurl.
‘What about this one?’ he asks, his brow softening.
‘D.’
‘Good.’ His thumb lifts off my hand momentarily. ‘Keep breathing.’
‘Is that anE?A I D E. . .’ I pause. ‘Are you spelling your name?’
‘Maybe,’ he replies, a knowing glint in his eye.
I shake my head. ‘That is so self-centred.’
‘Perhaps. But it got you grounded again.’ He gives my arm a soft, supportive squeeze.
And he’s right– I’m back to breathing without thought, the shakes have stilled and my body’s expelling its last fragile tears. Aiden Edwards has just talked me down from the edge. Aiden Edwards. The man with no soul.
I mumble a thank you, shrugging my arms from his hold and quickly gathering the mood board under my arm. ‘We should go. I’m pretty sure this room’s booked after us.’
I cannot stay in here with a man who’s now seen me cry.
‘I’m sure they won’t mind if we stay longer. Are you sure you’re OK?’ he asks, timidly studying my face.
‘I feel fine. I’m fine. You should go and find Evie,’ I say.
‘No, wait. I can come with you?’
But it’s too late. I’m already by the door, and I run. I grab my bag and head for the annex, not even daring to wait for the lift and risk more time with Aiden.
I barrel down the stairs, across the lobby and out of those double doors before anyone has time to ask who, what or where. My face is dry from the salt, my lungs close to ruin, but I march on through the winter rain anyway. I race down the street, through the common, trudging through the mud without even thinking about soiled loafers. It’s not until I reach the neutral sanctity of the second-closest Pret that I allow myself a moment to calm down and refocus. I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the pastry-cabinet glass. I’m an emotional wreck at 12.45 p.m. on a Friday. The ground may as well open up and swallow me whole. I can’t possibly go back to work and face Pippa or, God forbid, Aiden. Not while I’m still struggling not to shake.
I dive into my bag, reaching for the only thing that could possibly help at a time like this.
