I mean, he knows I’m super into him. We’ve made out a lot now. But his anxiety doesn’t always make sense, and something random like that could totally lead his thoughts into “oh my god serious relationship” territory.
Probably, though, it was just the social stress of the party. So many people. So much chaos. He often has to leave things like this, go back to his room, or—
Shit shit shit.
We areinhis room. He didn’t have anywhere to calm down, to get away. I didn’t think about that, and I pressed him into having this party . . .
Now my guilt is even worse. And my worry. Because this whole floor is filled with con people having parties, and the hallways will be crowded and—
“Hey Su-Lin!”
—And suddenly Jane Shaw’s boobs are in my face.
Okay, I’m not actuallythatshort. But really, that’s what it feels like. I have no idea what cosplay she’s doing right now, but I’m sure it’s super accurate, right down to every single inch of her body being thrust upward or hanging outward.
That jealousy flares again, thinking of her flirting with Brendan. Was he into that? He seemed to enjoy it. And who wouldn’t? She’s Jane freaking Shaw and god, evenIcan’t tear my eyes away from her body.
“Hi Jane,” I say, feeling myself shrinking a little. Why did I think jeans and a Pusheen tank top made for good party-wear? Was I trying to cosplay as myself at twelve? I mean, I love this shirt, and Pusheen as a sushi roll makes me laugh, but—
Jane smiles, tossing her platinum hair over her shoulder. “Great party!”
“Thanks.” I don’t have time for this. I need to make sure Brendan’s okay.
“Hey, where did your friend run off to?”
My throat goes dry. It’s pretty clear she’s not referring to Emily. “I—uh, I think he needed to get some more food.”
She looks disappointed, and my stomach is tying itself into little knots on top of knots, even as a guy who looks like the forgotten Hemsworth brother starts chatting her up.
Jane is totally into Brendan. And I know Brendan wants to be with me, but if given the choice between me andJane Shaw, any guy would—
No.I can’t worry about this right now. I need to check on Brendan, see if he found a good, quiet space to hole up. I look around the room frantically, making sure I can take off. People are laughing and drinking and eating and starting another game ofTwister. It’s mostly under control, and we’ve stashed our stuff in Brendan’s car.
I run over to Emily and ask her to keep an eye on the party for me, and she nods, but she’s clearly a little wasted.
I grab my Gudetama toaster on the way out, which prompts several disappointed groans from toast-munching party-goers. But no way in hell am I risking this getting stolen.
The halls are crowded and loud when I get out, and there’s no sign of Brendan, which is probably good. I head to the elevators, tucking the toaster under my arm. I’m in the elevator before it occurs to me how ridiculous this is.
Brendan has had panic attacks practically his whole life. He doesn’t need me to get through them. I’m not even sure I wouldn’t make it worse, especially if the attack was triggered by something about our relationship.
But he’s said before that it helps having me there. And I want to be there for him, to help in any way I can.To just be with him through it, if nothing else.
People in the elevator eye me and my toaster strangely, but I ignore them, bouncing nervously from foot to foot. I probably look like I need to pee and make toast and am trying to find a bathroom in which I can do both.They shift away from me, and I don’t blame them.
The elevator opens into the hotel lobby near the bar, which is also on the crowded side. I scan quickly, but it’s doubtful Brendan would be here. Did he go to sit in his car? I make my way past the reception desk and concierge, past the typical overpriced gift shop—hey,Twizzlers are on sale for only, like,halfa million dollars a bag!—and am about to the exit to the parking lot when I catch the sight of a very familiar shade of bright pink.
Brendan, half-hidden behind a big potted plant, sitting on a loveseat in a sort of removed nook over by the hotel “business center.”This business center consists of a computer and a printer/fax machine, neither of which have likely been used for at least a decade, since everyone and their five-year-old got a smartphone.
He’s got his head in his hands and his elbows on his knees as he sits nearly bent double.
My chest aches. I walk over and put the toaster down on the little side table by the small couch and settle in next to him. He looks up, startled at first, then sees it’s me and relaxes.
Relatively speaking, anyway. He’s clearly still struggling to breathe, his eyes squinching shut in pain, sweat beaded up along his hairline.
I wrap my arms around him and hold him tight, resting my head on his shoulder. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking, but I think he leans into me.
No, he definitely leans into me. I feel his cheek against the top of my head.
