I turned onto Prince Albert Road, heading for the entrance of Regent’s Park.Nature. Earth.Towering trees with their roots buried deep. That was what I needed right now. Just a few breaths of fresh air, and I’d be able to?—
“Hey, you!” A punk with a nose ring and an anarchist sweatshirt shoved a leaflet in my face. “Stop the fascist pigs ruining this country!”
My heart thudded against my chest. The world disappeared – all that existed was the kid’s worn, gaunt face and the smell of his clothes – sweat and piss and the distinct vinegar scent that could only be from heroin.
My throat constricted.
The kid lunged for me, mouthing something I couldn’t hear.
I lost control of my limbs. My body contorted, toppling into the street. Horns blazed. A double decker bus shrieked to a stop. A woman screamed. The driver leaned out to yell at me, but I didn’t hear a word he said.
My legs froze in place. I stared at the kid on the side of the street and the smell…thesmell…caught in my throat. I gasped for breath but it was inside me, all around me, turning my veins to ice. I was drowning in it, pulled under by the acidic current.
Poison.
Death.
They found me. They’re coming to take me back.
“Shit, bruv, it’s just a poster, innit?” The kid yelled after me.
My lungs burned. I gasped and spluttered, but there was no air left in the world. The voice pounded inside my head.
This is the death you most feared – choking on your tongue like the degenerate you are. Welcome it. Accept it. It is yours.
No, Rowan, you’re not dying. It’s a panic attack.Corbin’s voice rang in my ears.You’ve had them before. You’re okay. Just breathe.
More horns honked. I focused on the breathing exercises Corbin had looked up for me. I managed to gasp in a tiny mouthful of air. I crawled to the side of the street, clutching my stomach as it cramped and spun.
A woman came up at me and asked if I was all right. I nodded. “I slipped,” I choked out. “I’m fine.”
She nodded and left, because Londoners always had somewhere to be. I sat in the gutter, each passing vehicle splattering Blake’s jeans with more muck, until I could breathe normally again. When I stood up, my body trembled so much I had to hold up the waistband of Blake’s jeans so they wouldn’t fall down. I staggered into a hookah lounge, desperate to be out of the crowds for a few moments but not yet ready to return to the flat. The sweet, pungent stench of the molasses-based tobacco smoked in the distinct hookah pipes drove out the memory of the kid’s scent.
I pretended to be interested in a display of flavoredMu’assel. My mind replayed what had just happened over and over. I hadn’t had a full-on panic attack in at least two years, not since the first time I met Corbin’s mother, just after I got out of rehab for the last time. Even our recent visit to Corbin’s parents didn’t set me off, probably because I was too busy worrying about him to focus on myself. I hadn’t even been in London for five hours and I’d already gone mental, and all because a kid tried to give me a poster.
Maeve wanted us to get STI checks. She wanted to go without condoms. She wanted to be as close in our bodies as we were in our hearts.
How can I tell her that can never, ever happen?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
MAEVE
“Maeve! Omigod, there you are!”
Kelly rushed across the arrivals lounge, her loud American accent booming over all the quiet British chatter. Her blonde hair streamed behind her, and a brand-new oversized purse stuffed with magazines clattered at her side.
I opened my arms and she fell into them, and all my apprehension about her being here melted away. I was so happy to see her, alive and smiling and not in a hospital bed.
“Welcome to Jolly England. How was the flight?”
“I’ve been trapped in a tiny tin can for ten hours. My hair looks like straw and I’m all sweaty and gross and the guy next to me smelled like stale doughnuts.” Kelly smoothed down her hair. “I’m never getting on a plane ever again.”
“Aren’t you planning to backpack around the world? How do you plan to get to other countries – litter bearers?”
“I figure I’ll just take the trains through Europe. Gabe told me Europeans are nuts for trains. Trains are romantic. Haven’t you ever seen that famous film?”
“Which one,Murder on the Orient Express?”
