But I know it’s not for nothing. The perceived threat alarm is wailing inside my head. This situation is slipping out of my control. “Okay, fine. What is it you want? Money? I have cash. I don’t have my cards anymore because… Well, it’s a long story. But there are luxury designer items in my suitcase. Help yourself to anything you want.” I pause, midpanic. “Well, notanything. If you have a heart, leave the yellow Balenciaga padded mohair jacket,” I plead. “Oh, and the Givenchy metallic leather pants, please! Those are just, like, only flattering on the right body type.” The driver scoffs, and the panic surges again. “Not that you couldn’t pull them off! You probably totally could! It’s just they’re custom fit and—”
I stop blabbering long enough to notice we’ve somehow ended up back in Grandma and Gramps’s driveway. The porch light appears like a beacon in the near distance. Did we take a really long U-turn?
“Okay, seriously. What’s going on?” I ask, getting my breath back. “You could’ve just canceled the ride if you didn’t want to take me. I know it’s far. I’ll tip you big, okay?”
“Oh, like the fifty you flipped me last night?” The driver taps on the overhead light. Hector stares back at me withGotcha!written all over his face. My heart drops like an elevator in a disaster movie.
Of course this callous jerk would intercept my only means of escape. I grow clammy. Frustrated. Embarrassed. A hodgepodge of horrific feelings gurgle in my stomach, and I’m struggling for words.
“What…what a great, funny prank you just played.” I inhale sharply. “You’re just full of fucking jokes.” I should’ve known something was up. There’s not even another house within two minutes of here. How stupid of me. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
I struggle to get the seat belt unclipped. It feels like it’s crushing my sternum, but that might be the brand-new anxiety attack starting to spread like a rash across my torso.
“I thought it was pretty funny.” Hector’s pleasure is profuse and grating.
“What the fuck is wrong with this shitty seat belt?” I ask-shout, my chest rising and falling quicker than ever before.
“It sticks sometimes. You just have to pull.”
I shout that I am pulling. I yank and press and pull some more. The belt digs deeper into my shoulder.Please don’t let this happen right now.
Inhale. Count to ten. Exhale.
It’s no fucking use.
“Chill, whoa.Chill.” Hector jumps out of the car and runs around to the back passenger’s side. He nearly elbows me in the face while he frees me from my polyester prison. “Dude, you could’ve broken this,” he says, inspecting where the belt began to fray.
“Well, maybe if you want to be a RideShare driver, you shouldn’t have the world’s faultiest seat belts.” I’m suddenly hyperaware of his closeness. He smells of cedar, something smoky, and ocean-scented three-in-one cleanser. Not as a bad a scent as I’d suspected, but there’s no space to think on that. The combination is causing my head to whirl more. I wiggle out from underneath him and hunch over in the gravel.
Fire burns underneath my skin. My brain bangs against my skull for relief.
Hector takes a beat before placing a hand on my lower back. “Are you okay?”
I jerk away from his touch, already too busy fanning my internal flames. “I’m fine,” I lie. “I just need a minute.”
As he kills the car engine, I try to right my breathing, but my mind won’t let me.
It’s been so long since I’ve had an anxiety attack like this. I’ve worked so hard to make sure that kind of tight-chested dread wouldn’t control me any longer. With everything going on—all this abrupt change—I guess it was inevitable.
“Here,” Hector says, handing me a chilled bottle of water. I accept it and gulp it down with fervor. My body registers normalcy once more. I’m mortified, both for being caught running off and freaking the fuck out in front of him. As if he didn’t already think I was an abomination of mankind. “Come sit.” He ushers me over to the bench swing on the porch. Its gentle glide lulls me into semi-rational thought.
So much for being back in the city by sunrise. Grandma’s conversation comes ringing back to me with striking clarity.
God, I wish I could go back and unbuy that stupid island. Scrap the plans. Throw out the notebook I pored over with my exes. Never take a risk or a chance on myself again. Survive the rest of my life being the spoiled, looked-down-upon prop in my parents’ ascent to American power-couple status.
Wouldn’t that be easier? I should be grateful for my lot in life. Shame on me for wanting something more. My heart rate spikes again as my thoughts gain speed.
What was my plan, anyway? When Grandma and Gramps found out I was gone, they’d have told Mom and Dad right away. My parents would never be caught dead in Brooklyn, but that doesn’t mean they wouldn’t send someone after me. It doesn’t matter that I’m an adult. I’ll always be a loose-cannon kid in their eyes.
And maybe sometimes I do act on impulse or lash out or throw a tantrum like one, but maybe that’s because that’s the only way I can guarantee their attention.
I’ve been told time and time again that my biggest problem is not thinking things through. In hindsight, it’s so easy to see when I’ve done it, but in the moment, when I’m hit with an overwhelming urge to act—my anxiety growing unbearable—I follow through without hesitation.
“Has this happened to you before?” Hector asks. There’s newfound kindness intermingled with serious concern sparking in his eyes. The jutting elbows and sharp jabs we’ve been prodding each other with for the past two days fall away. For a flash, in the glow of the moonlight, we’re looking at each other without the pretenses.
I nod, head full of pressurized, overinflated balloons, ready to burst.
“Okay. Is there anything that normally helps when you experience this?” He sits next to me, leaving a person’s-width of space between us, allowing me to keep my security bubble. Inside that invisible bubble, I’m safe. It takes a lot of energy to remind myself of that.
