You know how when parents divorce and they assure their kids - orkidin my case as I'm an only child - that it wasn't their fault? Well my parents said that, too. Well my mom did. Only I know it isn't true.
My parents' divorce, both announced and finalized in the last nine months, was one hundred percent, without question, and undeniably, my fault. Not that my fatherwoulddeny it if I confronted him, I'm sure. But that will never happen. My father's response when I told him I never wanted to see him again for as long as I lived? "I'm sorry you feel that way."
Not "I'm sorry for betraying you." Not "I'm sorry I hurt you". Because he'snot. He still thinks I'm to blame for everything that happened. And that truth is, though I'd never say it out loud, sometimes I still think he's right.
Thank God for Mom - my rock. My protector, my defender. She left her husband, my father, because he wasn't on my side, and uprooted our entire lives to get me away from that damned school. From that goddamned town.
I rub my fingers over the pocket of the backpack again. There were thirty pills in the prescription I filled a week and a half ago. I took one that first day. Two the next day, when I unpacked the box with my old cheerleading uniform before I took scissors to it and threw it in the trash. I took one last Tuesday when the neighbor's creepy son leered at me when he took his trash cans to the curb as I was returning from my run, right before I went to the store to buy more modest running gear.
I took two on Friday when Mom's childhood friend, Karen, came over to welcome us "back", though I've never lived here before, and started asking questions about my dad. That leaves twenty four pills.
I'm still breathing heavily, but my pulse is slowing. Counting pills seems to have staved off the attack.
Just then the door to room 313 bursts open and out saunters a classmate. A sideways glance shows him raising his eyebrows with appraising interest when he notices me leaning up against the wall with my chest heaving. My forehead is still pressed against the locker and I only see him in my peripheral. This is embarrassing as hell. I'm no longer invisible.Damn it.
"Uh, are you okay?" he murmurs, his voice deep, like gravel.
I nod against the lockers but don't turn, hoping he continues off to the restroom or wherever he was headed so I can wait for my panic attack to continue to subside in peace.
"You don't look okay. Can I get you something? Or someone? The nurse maybe?"
I take a deep breath and muster up my composure. This is the absolute last thing I need. To be labeled as the crazy girl with the anxiety issues on day one. He's just one student. I have to cut this off at the head. "I'm really fine, I just needed a minute," I assure him as I turn around and plaster on what must be an obviously fake smile.
Holy shit.
He is a walking trigger for me. Gorgeous. MyGodis he gorgeous. And gorgeous guys in high school are assholes. Especially jocks. And judging by his physique, that's exactly what he is. He's tall. Built. Six plus feet of lean muscle... athletic. Something I'd have found incredibly attractive a year ago.
Now all I can think is how easy it would be for him to overpower me.
No matter how many self-defense classes I take, I'm still just an average height, slight figured girl. No match against him. No match against any man really.
Suddenly all I register is the desolately empty hallway, the absence of any other souls. The fact that there are over a thousand people in this building, including thirty or so just on the opposite side of the door he just exited, is completely and utterly lost on me.
My pulse races again, ten times worse than before. I gape at him in shocked panic, but can't catch my breath enough to speak. I reach for the front pocket of my backpack again, this time for the zipper, but my hand shakes too much to get a grip on it. My gaze makes its way up this stranger's frighteningly powerful body, up past a chiseled jaw, and lips so full and soft looking they are in total contrast with his masculine jawline. My eyes inexorably continue their path past a straight nose framed by perfectly defined cheek bones, and lock on his eyes.
The sneer I expect is missing. He's not looking at me like I'm some psycho freak - though I'm pretty sure that's what I've become. Instead, he's watching me with genuine concern. His eyes are the deepest blue, like a midnight sky, and his brow is creased with worry.
And the strangest thing happens. As we keep eye contact, I start to calm. I breathe in, and out. In, and out. I am still panicking, but I can breathe, and my fingers stop shaking enough to get a grip on the zipper pull. I look down to unzip the pocket and grab the bottle, but as soon as our eye contact is broken, I can't remember what calmed me in the first place and my chest constricts. My lungs betray me. The bottle tumbles from my trembling fingers and rolls a few feet away. Before I can scramble to pick it up,hedoes it first.
I freeze, waiting for him to hand me my medication, but he pauses, and reads the label. His brow furrows again in concern, or consternation, and I can feel him judging me as he reluctantly hands me the bottle. But I don't care yet. I can't. I need to calm down. I need a pill. I twist open the lid and look up and down the hall, silently thanking God when I see a water fountain. I force myself the thirty or so feet to it, pop the pill, take a drink, and then lean back against the wall and close my eyes, waiting for the magic to take effect.
Barely minutes later the chemical tranquility starts flowing through my veins, and slowly, the pressure in my chest alleviates. My breathing starts to even out, and though my mind grows somewhat cloudy - the whole reason I want to stop taking the pills in the first place - the attack is passing. A few more moments and I'll be able to open my eyes, maybe even venture into math class.
"Better?"
My eyelids fly open. I hadn't realized he was still here, let alone followed me to the water fountain.
"Fine. Like I said," I mutter ungratefully. He furrows his brow, hesitating, and I wonder why he's even still here. For a split second, even calmed by modern medicine, I worry he might want to hurt me, and I swallow a lump of nerves and hold my breath.
"Why don't I know you, Aurora?" he asks casually, as if he didn't just witness me breaking down in the hallway.
"Rory," I correct, before I realize he just called me by name. "Wait. How do you know my name?" My tone makes me sound paranoid, and the irony is that had I not just ingested anti-anxiety medication, just the idea of this tall, ruggedly beautiful boy knowing something about me I haven't offered him would send me spiraling into another attack. But I took the pill. I caved. So I can come across like a relatively normal person, at least for now.
"It was on your... um... bottle," he replies.
I look down, mortified. Vaguely I wonder if he knows what Alprazolam is prescribed for, even though he obviously just witnessed my attack. I'm thankful the bottle says the generic name, and not justXanax, which teens generally recognize. Some even take it for fun, which doesn't make sense to me. There is nothing fun about any of it.
"So why don't I know you,Rory?"
