“Then open the door,” Darcy said.
Teagan stepped away from the door and turned on the nearest sink. Taking the handful of steps made his head swim.
It wasn’t carpeted over by the sink. If he fell, he might crack his head on the tile. Maybe he’d die in here anyway.
“Teagan,” Darcy said in a lower voice, speaking directly against the door frame. “I am not afraid to get out the fire axe and break this door down if you do not tell meright nowwhat is happening. I’ll do it.”
He felt too unsteady on his feet to respond. Could he forget how to breathe? It felt like his body would no longer breathe without his conscious control. He gripped the counter, afraid that he would fall down.
His mother had done this. Been unable to walk, too many drinks into her evening. He’d come pick her up at a party or a restaurant, slip an arm around her waist, half carry her out.Sorry, she’s not feeling well, he’d say. Maybe some people had even believed him.
The lock on the door was the flimsy kind, just a button, no key. It rattled for a moment, and then the handle twisted as Darcy got the door open with a bobby pin.
Teagan got just a flash of the worry on her face before he ducked his own to hide it. He lifted his hands from the counter to scrub at his cheeks, but he needed them to hold himself upright, and he had to quickly grip the counter again.
“Oh my God, Teagan,” Darcy said, the fear in her voice sending a fresh bolt of shame through his stomach. She swept up against him, pulling at his tie to loosen it, fingers scrabbling for his pulse.
He got one hand free to ineffectually bat at hers.
“Stop,” he managed. “It’s not—it’s not a medical problem.”
Darcy ignored that. She pulled on his arm until they sank down to the bathroom floor, then got his tie all the way off and his shirt collar unbuttoned. Her fingers were solid and cold where they pressed against the pulse point in his neck.
“It’s too fast for me to count. I think—I think you’re having a heart attack,” she said, voice tightening until it sounded entirely un-Darcy-like. “I’m calling 911.”
Teagan grabbed for her wrist as she moved to get to her feet.
“It’s not a heart attack,” he said. “I know it’s not a heart attack. I saw a cardiologist.” He felt a little bit better on the floor. “Don’t call anyone. Please.”
“Then what’s happening?” she begged, distraught like he’d never seen her.
“Nothing. Nothing is actually happening. This is all in my head,” he said.
God, what would she make of that? He was on the filthy floor of the bathroom, hyperventilating as tears rolled down his cheeks, and the worst part was that nothing was happening to him.
“Did you take something?” she asked, voice only a little calmer.
He shook his head and nearly laughed. He wished he’d taken something, like he wished he was an alcoholic instead of a psychiatric patient, because if he took things that made him feel like this, then he might be able tostop.
“I won’t be mad,” Darcy promised. “You can tell me.”
“No, I—I was just in that meeting, and I didn’t sleep well last night, and—just give me a minute. Just give me a minute and I’ll be fine.”
He closed his eyes and leaned forward, resting his head on his knees. The spinning sensation was subsiding. He’d just stay here for a while.
He heard Darcy exhale and then rise to her feet. He heard the sink turn off. Her footsteps receded and returned. Darcy crouched next to him and gently wiped his face with a wet paper towel, then folded a second one over the back of his neck.
“Don’t move,” Darcy said unnecessarily. He couldn’t go anywhere. He wasn’t even sure he could stand back up.
He heard the door open and close. He tipped his head forward. The entire scene felt unreal, like it was happening to someone else. He had the sensation that he’d wake up in his own bed any moment now, still sweating but able to think again. Any second he’d wake up, and he would never have run out of an ordinary business meeting, because that wasn’t the sort of thing he did. That wasn’t the sort of thing anyone did.
The door opened, and he willed it to be Darcy without opening his eyes. Then he recognized the smell of her herbal shampoo, the now-familiar scent immediately soothing him. She slid a very cold object into his hands—a soda. When he simply held it between his hands, focusing on the solidity of it, she took it back and cracked the tab.
As though he was a small child, she pressed it to his lips.
“Here,” she said, tone still thin and wobbly. “Some Sprite will probably help, huh?”
She probably was thinking about low blood sugar or stomach trouble, not panic attacks, but she happened to be right.
