Jordan’s fingers start trembling, and history tells me he’s more than just worried. I kneel immediately in front of him, my knees scraping against the rocky dirt. Jordan doesn’t look at me, his chest expanding and contracting abnormally.
He’s having a panic attack.
“Jordan,” I say as calmly as I can, trying to ignore the corresponding panic working through me as I watch fear dance wildly in his eyes. “Jordan, look at me.”
His breathing grows more frantic.
Gently, I place both my hands on his shoulders to let him know I’m there, and he glances up just enough to meet my eyes.
“Follow my breathing, okay?” I breathe deep, motioning with my head for him to follow.
He takes a rigid, shaky breath, followed too quickly by another.
“Deep, slow breaths.” I inhale again, making a point of filling my lungs before letting the air go.
Jordan wraps his hands around my wrists like they are twin lifelines, and together, we breathe in and out for several long minutes until Jordan’s breathing regulates.
Once the crisis is ended, I don’t move or speak. I just soak in the fact that Jordan is okay—physically, that is.
This is not the first time Jordan’s had a panic attack. In February, Jordan and I were in a similar situation after finishing up at McGregor’s. We’d just started to load our groceries into his car when he realized he’d left his phone at work.
I gave him my phone immediately, and he’d called his mom, only to discover she had called his phone several times while we were in the store. She’d cut her finger open on a can and was hoping he could pick up some bandages while he was out.
Once Jordan ended the call with his mom, he went straight into a panic attack. Only at the time, he told me it was due to stress at work, and he was so casual about it that I naively brushed the incident off as a one-time thing. Watching it happen again, I’m starting to see the correlation between his panic attacks and his ability to be in contact with his mom.
For months, I’ve watched him dote on Mrs. Miller excessively, surely the result of a son seeing his mom teeter on the edge of life, unwilling to let that happen again. But seeing Jordan now, the roots of the problem seem to stretch so deep down that I wonder if he’ll ever let me in long enough to get to the bottom of it. I’ve danced around this topic with Jordan before, but I’ve never asked him about it point-blank.
If I never confront him about what he’s holding back, how can I ever expect him to tell me what’s really going on?
I look at Jordan and watch a drop of lake water drip from his dark-blond hair down the side of his face. His eyes are closed, but his breathing is back to normal. I shift and start to take myhands off his shoulders to give him space, but his hands grip my wrists tighter as if he doesn't want me to leave.
So I don’t. I let my hands rest back on his shoulders. “Jordan?”
A small sound hums from his mouth, letting me know he’s listening.
“What aren’t you telling me?” I ask as gently as possible.
His eyes drift open, but they don’t meet mine. His shoulders tense beneath my hands, and from the sorrow etched across his face, I can almost feel the torment pulsing inside him. “I messed up, Paige.”
For a moment, Jordan seems at war with himself, stuck between speaking more of his thoughts and holding them close to his chest. Eventually, his tortured gaze drifts to mine. I want to hug away the pain I see in his eyes, but I don’t. I just give him time.
After a while, he speaks again. “I learned about my mom’s cancer two days before high school graduation.”
My brow furrows. “What? I thought you didn’t know until after graduation. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Jordan shakes his head. “I wanted to tell you. I was going to tell you, but then…”
The hammock.He doesn’t have to say it.
On graduation night, when we went to the hammock, he’d held my hand, gripping me so tightly. I thought that was him flirting with me. Loving me. But it was him holding onto something strong and steady—our friendship. I know now that he had been planning to tell me about his mom’s cancer, but then I told him I loved him, throwing a wrench into everything.
“I should have done things differently, Paige. On graduation night. I shouldn’t have left you. And my mom. I shouldn’t…” Jordan lets go of my wrists, scrubbing his hands through his hair.
The absence of his touch sends a chill rippling through my body. “What about your mom?”
Jordan takes a deep breath, and I wonder if he’s going to tell me more. On instinct, I reach out and place a hand on his forearm, silently letting him know that he can trust me.
“My mom was showing symptoms of her cancer long before she found out. She had an appointment scheduled to get some imaging done about midway through our senior year. But when she told me about her appointment, I… I was so wrapped up in senior year and my friends, and then you and I were going to go to California, and…” Jordan stops, looking directly at me.
