Hanna held the next one at the peak, counting to five before letting it slip back out.
“One more.”
The third breath was easier, releasing something in her head. She could hear dishes clinking together in the kitchen, the laughter of Cami and her sisters as they poured more wine. She could smell the beer on Milo’s breath, mixed with a smoky amber cologne warmed by his pulse.
“Better?”
She nodded, the panic now replaced with a white-hot shame.
“You have a lot of panic attacks?” he asked, rocking back onto his heels. The air conditioning kicked on, rushing a cool breeze over her.
“Uh. No. Yeah. Sometimes,” she said.
“It’s normal to have them after a significant loss. Or two,” he added.
Hanna avoided his gaze. The concern was too much. She could hear the echo in his voice on the phone eight months ago as she screamed for Sara.
“Thanks,” she mumbled.
“Don’t be embarrassed.” His tone was so gentle that it somehow hurt more than if he had pointed and laughed.
“I’m not.”
“Liar,” Milo laughed. “After my dad died, I’d have panic attacks in the middle of class. It was brutal. Teenagers aren’t very understanding.”
Hanna fought back tears as her emotions circled one another, but they weren’t on her behalf.
“High school?”
“Yeah,” Milo said. He folded his arms as he stood and leaned against the desk, taking Sloane’s place. “I was fifteen.”
“Jesus,” Hanna murmured. “At least I was through puberty. I’m so sorry.”
She could see it, all that pain still sitting right under the surface of his skin, even fifteen years later. The realization unsettled her.
It never went away then.
Milo shrugged. “It gets easier.”
“Does it?”
He sighed as his shoulders dropped. “I hate that I just said that. It used to piss me off. Because the truth is, it doesn’t. It… changes. Gets more predictable, I guess.”
Hanna stood, crossing the space and pulling his forearm between them, the clock resting between her fingers.
“Time of death?”
Milo smirked. “Yeah, not that you’d ever ask.”
Hanna ran her thumb over the face of the clock, the ink rippling beneath her touch. She dropped his arm and pushed the puff sleeve resting above her elbow back, revealing the black and gray wings of the butterfly tattoo she’d gotten just before the holidays.
“My mom had a butterfly tattoo. Felt appropriate.”
Milo reached for the back of her elbow, bringing the artwork closer as he examined it.
“It’s pretty.”
Hanna pulled her sleeve down and reached for one of the bags of ice.
