Dagen sighs. “Are you safe right now?”
“I am,” I rasp, my voice shaking harder now that I’m away from Ric “He tried to grab me, but my coworkers helped scare him away.”
“Good.” I can almost hear him running a hand through his hair. “Which restaurant?” I rattle off the name. “I’ll arrange a ride for you in about thirty minutes. Don’t walk again. We don’t know what he’s capable of.”
I blink at his words, at the way it almost sounds like he cares. But that can’t be true. We hardly know each other, and as he stated before, he’s just protecting his investment. Nothing more.
Hanging up the phone, I take a deep breath and stare at my reflection. The moment I do, I see the flicker in my eyes, the panic there. I look scared, and I hate it. I don’t want to be afraid anymore. I don’t want to do this. Oh, god. I don’t want to put Elsie through this all over again. My eyes fall to my arm where Ric had grabbed me, and I realize there’s a red mark there. A reminder he left behind. Less permanent than what he used to leave behind, but a reminder all the same. It’s probably going to bruise. My chest rises and falls, picking up speed as I stare at the mark. Before I’m conscious of what I’m doing, I’ve turned on the faucet and shoved my arm under the running water. It slowly grows hot, too hot, but I don’t care as I start to scrub, trying to get the feeling of his fingers off my skin. I’m barely aware of anything else as I scrub, not until the first tear falls, not until my head grows fuzzy from hyperventilating.
The panic attack hits me so suddenly, I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. Oh, fuck. I can’t breathe. Still, I scrub and scrub and scrub, making my skin raw from scrubbing, trying to get rid of any evidence, trying to make sure nothing he touched is still there. If I have to scrap the skin from my bones, I will.
Someone comes into the bathroom. I think it’s Julia, but I’m so lost in my panic attack, I don’t respond as she tries to get my attention. I don’t even look at her. My eyes are fixated on my arm, my body quickly making it impossible to focus on anything else. The fuzzier my head grows, the less I can see through my tears, until I can barely stand, until I fall to my knees. Still, I clutch onto the sink, trying to scrub my arm, water spilling all over my shirt and running down it.
Julia leaves and I’m alone for all of thirty seconds. The next time the door opens, I don’t even look over, not until he’s grabbing me and pulling me into his arms, not until he’s pressing my head against his shoulder.
“This is the ladies’ room,” I choke out, but there’s no way he could understand me through the sobs suddenly spilling from my throat. There’s no way. My voice sounds so far away, even to my own ears.
And then I break down completely in the arms of Dagen Fox.
Sixteen
Dagen
There’s a crying woman in my arms and I don’t know exactly what to do about it, but I do know something about panic attacks. I spent a sizable portion of my teenage years fighting them before I learned the proper coping mechanisms for me. I don’t know what will work for Ava, but I can try my best to help. This isn’t the time to be losing our heads, even if I don’t blame her for it. She’s made it this far. She had the courage to bring me into her situation, and honestly, this little game we’re playing is fun for me. Well. . . not this part. I could do without the sobbing.
She’d been on the floor already when I came in, water staining her outfit, her arm red and raw from scrubbing where I can only assume he must have grabbed her. Her coworkers are outside, worried for her, emotions that only heightened when I’d told them to wait outside while I took care of this. The women had nearly bludgeoned me when I suggested I come in to help, saying another man wouldn’t make the situation any better. I’d had to promise I wasn’t here to hurt Ava. That I was here to make things better. Still, they’d given me five minutes before they were coming in behind me.
“Breathe in for me,” I say as I hold her against my chest. She’s practically in my lap now as we sit on the floor of the ladies’ bathroom in a small restaurant I’ve never been to. It’s nothing fancy, just some burrito place, but at least the restroom is clean. “Good,” I encourage when she starts trying to follow my directions. “Hold it. Now let it out. Again.”
I repeat my words, breathing with her, forcing her heart rate to slow until she’s coherent enough that her tears start to dry up.
“We’re sitting on the floor,” she sniffs.
“We are,” I nod, still holding her.
“You’re going to ruin your suit.”
“Nothing dry cleaning won’t fix,” I reassure her. “Now, I need you to take in another deep breath for me. Five counts. Then let it out for five counts. Ready?”
She nods and together, we breathe in and out, in and out, until she’s calm enough to pull away and give me space. Part of me. . . dislikes it. I’d grown comfortable holding her, but the distance she puts between us reminds me that we’re business partners, that I’m essentially her boss. We shouldn’t be wrapped around each other.
“Oh no,” she rasps, taking in the tears all over my suit, not to mention the wet spots from the water she’d practically bathed in and the smears of makeup. “I’ve definitely ruined that. It probably costs so much. . .”
“Don’t worry about the suit, Ava,” I remind her. “It’s fine.”
“I’m so sorry,” she croaks. “This is terribly unprofessional?—”
“We’re far past professional, I think,” I answer before getting to my feet. I reach down and help her up behind me, steading her when she wobbles on her feet. “Panic attacks are relatively common, especially with those who have PTSD.”
“I don’t have PTSD,” she counters, glancing at herself in the mirror before a distressed look stretches across her face. She immediately tries to fix her disheveled hair and her makeup.
“You mean you’ve never been diagnosed with PTSD,” I point out. “You most assuredly do. It’s common after extended contact with a narcissist.”
She glances at me in the mirror as if remembering what I’d said about my mother. “Did you have panic attacks?” she whispers.
I could lie. It’s not information I’ve ever told anyone, but for some reason, I nod as I reach for a paper towel and wet it. I step up to her and start wiping at the smeared mascara running down her cheeks. She freezes as I do so, stricken by my attention, her eyes on mine.
“My anxiety was so bad at one point, I was having at least one panic attack a day. Turns out, there are coping mechanisms.”
