His face goes reflective, soft. “I know that. I’ve always known that.”
My heart does this flip-flop thing, and some emotion makes my throat scratchy.
The moment stretches between us, taut with unspoken things. Then, a blasting horn from a passing truck on Woodsville Road shatters the silence, and everything inside me freezes.
The sound triggers something primal in my brain—screeching tires, crunching metal, the blare of a horn as my car flips.
My lungs constrict, refusing to fill. Sweat breaks out along my hairline, my palms. The edges of my vision darken, the familiar tunnel forming as panic takes hold.
Not in front of Brooks—again.
“Sydney?” His voice sounds far away, underwater. “Syd, look at me.”
I try, but my eyes won’t focus. My heart hammers painfully against my ribs, too fast, too hard.
I’m going to die. I’m going to die right here in Maisie Kingston’s sunroom because a truck honked its horn.
“Can’t—” I gasp, “—breathe.”
“Yes, you can.” Brooks’ face swims into focus, close to mine. “You’re not dying, I promise.”
His hands are on my shoulders, steady and warm. How does he know? How does he knowexactlywhat this is?
“Focus on me,” he says, his voice low and steady. “Just me. Take a breath in—slow—that’s it. Now out. Good.”
I follow his instructions, clinging to his voice like a lifeline. Gradually, the vise around my chest loosens. The tunnel vision recedes. My heart still races, but the immediate sense of doom begins to fade.
“The horn—it reminded me...” I manage, embarrassment flooding in as the panic ebbs.
“I know,” he says simply. No judgment, no pity. Just understanding.
“I’m sorry.” I wipe my damp cheeks. When did I start crying?
“Don’t.” His voice is firm. “Don’t apologize for this. Ever.”
There’s a recognition in his eyes that makes me wonder what I keep wondering lately—if Brooks Kingston has more in common with me than I ever realized.
“How do you know what to do?”
He looks away, something vulnerable crossing his features before the shutters come down again. “Experience,” he says finally.
I want to press, to ask more, but he’s already standing, pulling me gently to my feet. “Come on. I know what’ll help.”
“What?”
“Ice skating.”
I blink at him, certain I’ve misheard. “Brooks, I just had a panic attack. I don’t think strapping blades to my feet and wobbling around on frozen water is the solution.”
“Trust me.” There’s that half-smile again. “Cool air, physical activity, focusing on your body instead of what’s in your head—it helps. Plus, the lake’s frozen solid again. No cars, no traffic sounds. Just open space.”
“I have zero skills,” I say as he helps me into my coat. “Soccer skills don’t translate to ice.”
“Good thing you’ve got a pro to teach you.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re at the edge of the lake behind Maisie’s property, her old skates laced tight on my feet. The ice stretches before us, a perfect white canvas under the winter sun. Brooks was right—it’s peaceful here.
“Ready?” Brooks is already on the ice, extending his hand to me.
