She rubs at the center of her chest as if that’ll help her inhale more air. Her skin is paler than it was just a while ago when she was dancing. As she slides off the stool onto her feet, her entire body shudders. I recognize an impeding panic attack and it’s coming on fast.
“You want me to help you to the bathroom?” I ask, voice low and gentle, hoping to calm her.
She swallows and shakes her head. “I don’t think I can get it off alone.”
“It’ll be okay.”
We make it outside of the bar, and as if being possessed by a demon, she starts clawing at the buttons down her back.
“I’m stuck,” she cries out, panic threading her voice. “I’m actually stuck. I need it off of me. I don’t want it touching me anymore.”
“Hey,” I say gently. “I’ve got you. It’s okay.”
She murmurs, her lip trembling. “Please help me.”
I take in the dress, the lace, the way her whole body is braced like she’s on the verge of a full-on panic attack.
“Do you care about this dress?” I ask.
She looks at me dead seriously. “I hope I never see this dress ever again.”
“Got it.”
I yank it off in one swoop. Buttons pop loose and scatter like confetti. The dress loosens and slides down, pooling at her feet.
She exhales like she’s been underwater and finally came up for air. Her skin bears marks from the dress’s tight fit. Jesus. This was, in fact, an honest-to-God torture device.
I hand her a beach towel and turn away while she wraps it around herself. As much as the glimpse of lingerie entices the lonely male parts of me, I don’t act on it. Silvie doesn’t even know me and is giving me her trust. Trust isn’t something I take lightly.
“Thank you,” she says, voice full of relief.
“You really are going to be okay,” I assure her.
She smiles at that. Soft. Real. Then her knees buckle, and I’m already moving, lifting her without asking. She doesn’t protest. She just relaxes in my arms as if she trusts I won’t drop her. I won’t. Especially since we left thirty pounds of dead wedding dress weight behind us.
I carry her to my truck and set her down on the seat. I don’t wait for her to struggle with the seatbelt while trying to hold her towel on and just go ahead and buckle her in. I go back for her purse and bag and toss them into the back seat.
I pull my phone out and call Birdie.
She answers on the first ring. “Cal?”
“I’ve got your girl,” I say. “We’re on our way.”
There’s a pause. “Is she okay?”
“She will be,” I tell her.
“I should have cancelled bingo,” Birdie murmurs, guilt in her tone. “She needed me and?—”
“She neededtonight,” I interrupt. “I looked after her and now you can take over from here.”
Birdie’s voice softens. “Thank you.”
I look down at the woman who’s now asleep in the seat next to me, hair spilling down her shoulders, face relaxed and finally at peace.
“No problem.”
4
