His hand guides me, firm at my elbow as he steers me through the bar and into his office, the door closing behind us and muting the noise instantly.
Too quiet. Too small. My fingers start shaking again as my breath comes out in short, broken gasps I can’t seem to control.
“I can’t…” I choke, my chest tightening painfully. “I can’t breathe.”
“Yes, you can,” Dex says steadily, his voice low and sure, like something solid I can hold on to. “Look at me.”
I don’t want to. I do anyway.
“Feet on the floor,” he continues, softer now as he crouches in front of me, gently slipping off my shoes and placing my feet flat against the ground. “Feel it under you. You’re here, with me. Nothing’s touching you. You’re okay.”
His voice is an anchor.
I clutch the edge of his desk as my chest burns, tears spilling before I can stop them, humiliation and fear tangling together until I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
“It’s okay,” he says quietly, his green eyes fixed on mine, worry softening the sharpness in them. “Tell me five things that start with a P.”
So I do.
It takes long minutes before the tightness eases, before my breathing slows enough that I don’t feel like I’m disappearing.
I sink into the chair across from his desk, exhausted.
Dex crouches in front of me, close but not crowding.
“Talk to me,” he says.
I wipe at my face, staring at the floor. “It’s… today.”
He waits.
“The anniversary,” I whisper. “Of my dad.”
Silence settles between us.
Then, softly… “Tell me about it.”
So I do. I tell him about the pharmacy, the robbery, the shooters, and then the hospital.
“I know it’s been twelve years now, but still, every year on this day it’s like grief shows up and won’t leave me alone.” I shake my head, embarrassed.
Dex steps closer to me. “You lost someone who meant the most to you in this world. There is no timestamp on grief.”
He cocks his head, studying me. “The thought of losing my dad like that…” He shakes his head. “A hundred years wouldn’t be able to erase that pain, let alone twelve.” He looks pensive.
“What do you do usually, on this day?” he asks.
I shrug. “I usually took the day off and spent it with my brother…”
“Not your mom too?”
Oh, nope. Not going there. She preferred drinking and numbing her pain with pills, but I don’t say that. Somehow, the way Dex stares at me makes me think he knows anyway.
“What did you and your brother do?”
I think back and remember. “We used to give ourselves permission to be sad that day, and we’d call it the blue day.” I smile at the memory. “We’d eat junk food, food that didn’t need cooking, go to all his favorite places like the woods and the park, then we’d go by my dad’s favorite pastry shop, get some scones, and take them with us to the cemetery. We’d bring blankets and have a picnic with him.” I shrug slightly. “It might sound strange…”
“It’s beautiful.” Dex lifts his hand to my face and tucks a stray hair behind my ear. “Come.” He takes my hand.
