He must have spent hours here, cleaning and setting everything up. The walls are free of spider webs, and not a single strand of hay can be seen.
I completely forget I’m struggling to breathe as I gape at my surroundings. No one has ever done anything like this for me before. I turn to find Mickey leaning against the door with his hands stuffed into his pockets. “It’s so beautiful,” I gasp.
He shrugs with his typical confident attitude. “I know.”
He didn’t need to do all of this for me. This is going above and beyond my wildest dreams. I did nothing to deserve any of it. “You did all this for me?”
Easing himself from the doorway, my heart picks up as he closes the distance. I try taking smaller breaths with the purpose of making sure my static chest stays silent. I want to wrap my arms around him and press my lips to his plush ones so he knows how much I appreciate this.
So he knows I see him—all of him—even when no one else does.
I meet his intense stare as he gazes down at me, looking completely lost in whatever he must see in me. “When will you realize there is nothing I wouldn’t do for you?”
My lips part, and I swallow a cough. “I can’t believe you did all this. How much did all this even cost? How long did it take? When did you have time to do all of this?”
He leans forward and lowers his voice like he’s telling me a secret. “I’m a god.”
“You’d be a really shitty one. You’ll probably do the opposite of whatever people pray for.” He’s downplaying what he’s done, like he always does.
“Who do you pray to?”
I narrow my eyes, confused. “I don’t pray.”
“You’d get on your knees for me if I asked. Does that make me your god, Princess?”
I choke on an inhale, then the critters crawling in my lungs let loose. The first cough that rips through my throat is a sputter. The second has me hunched over, gasping for air, only to cough instead.
Each one is more painful than the last, and my stomach clenches like I’m about to vomit, but nothing comes out. Tears prick my eyes, and everything is cold but burning at the same time.
I try to slow my breathing while also trying to sit upright, but it’s all useless. Dots blur my vision, and I don’t notice the hands on me until something is shoved in my mouth. My brain picks up on what’s happening—just barely—and I close my mouth around the plastic and push down on the medication.
The puff of medicine doesn’t reach my lungs on the first try, but thankfully it does on the second. I try a third time for good measure.
My body is weightless, crumbled on the floor with a hard mass at my back while I focus on breathing.
One measured breath, then two.
Heaving is the better word. Or gasping. Rasping. All the above.
It gets easier as the seconds pass, with the help of the circles Mickey is rubbing against my back. Though his touch does nothing to take away the ache in my ribs or the claws ripping down my throat.
Leaning my head against Mickey’s shoulder, he shifts so his arms are wrapped around my waist, rocking us from side to side, murmuring something I can’t make out over the rush of adrenaline.
Minutes pass as my breathing evens out, and oxygen slowly seeps back into my brain. I almost wish it didn’t so I can escape Mickey’s questioning.
“Where’s your inhaler?”
Silence follows.
He knows the answer, and I don’t have the energy to think of an elaborate excuse for why it isn’t in my pocket or my bag like it should be.
“Where’s your inhaler, Isabella?” His voice is darker this time, and the tension returns to my tired body.
“At…”
“The next words out of your mouth better not be ‘at home,’” he warns, and his arms stop giving me the comfort they did moments ago. “Jesus Christ, Bella. You can’t keep forgetting.”
I shuffle away from him so we face each other, but my attention trains on my intertwined hands. “I’m fine. It’s only mild.”
