Gabby shook her head. “It’s fine,” she said. “I just need a minute.” A minute, sure. A minute for her breath to stop coming in gross, ragged gasps like she’d just run a marathon with no training; a minute for the golem sitting on her chest to relax his grip around her heart.
Ryan looked at her. “Wow,” he said, sounding almost conversational. “Your sister was like, not fucking around, huh?”
God, she could not believe this was happening right now. “No, Ryan,” she said tightly. “She was not fucking around.”
Ryan nodded. “Okay,” he said. “What usually helps?”
Gabby curled her hand around the skinny trunk of a freshly planted tree on the front lawn. “You wanna know, like, what I do when I’m having a panicker?”
“Yeah,” he said, “if that’s what’s happening to you now.”
Gabby could hear the party from inside the house, music and somebody laughing shrilly. She wished he would just go in there and leave her alone. “Stop,” she said. She didn’t trust this tree to be holding her weight. Wouldn’t that be perfect, if on top of everything she ripped these people’s brand-new sapling out by the roots like the Incredible Hulk in front of the cutest boy at Colson. “This is embarrassing.”
“Why is it embarrassing?” Ryan asked, sitting down onthe bottom step. “It’s like, an illness, right? You wouldn’t be embarrassed if you were having an asthma attack.”
Gabby hesitated. She appreciated the sentiment—she thought it was surprisingly evolved of him, actually—but she didn’t know how to explain to him that thiswasn’tlike an asthma attack, not really. If she had asthma, nobody would make her do triathlons to build her character. But going to parties, joining clubs, calling for pizza—people always thought she should be trying a little harder to do stuff like that.
Ryan stretched his long legs out in front of him, casual. “Do you see a doctor about it?” he asked.
Oh, god, here they went. “No,” Gabby said, crossing her arms and wiping her clammy hands on the sleeves of her jacket. She wanted to make herself small enough that nobody would be able to look at her. She wanted to run all the way home. “I can handle it myself.”
“Really?” Ryan asked. “Because, no offense, but it doesn’t really seem like you’re handling it super great right now.”
Gabby’s eyes narrowed. “Because you know me so well, right?”
“Not at all,” Ryan said. “I’m just a casual observer.”
“You should mind your own business, then.” In fact Gabbyhadseen a therapist, for three long months when she was twelve, a guy with a gray goatee named Dr. Steiner, who asked her annoying, redundant questions while he let her win at checkers. Gabby had not been impressed. Now whenevershe thought about trying again, it just felt like so muchwork. Having to go in there every week and talk about her stupid emotions. Having to explain herself to somebody new.
“My dad left,” Ryan announced out of nowhere.
Gabby blinked. “Huh?” Then, realizing abruptly what a rude response that was, she said, “I’m sorry.” She blinked again, letting go of the tree and standing upright, taking a step toward him. “Like, today?”
Ryan shook his head. “A week or so ago. The night I met you, actually. He came and picked his stuff up today, though.”
“I’m sorry,” Gabby said again. She had no idea why he was telling her this in the middle of her panic attack—jocks were exactly as self-absorbed as she’d always figured they were, maybe—but she was interested in spite of herself. She sat down next to him on the stoop, trying again to swallow down the wad of panic stuffed like a gym sock in her throat. “Did you know it was going to happen, or—”
“See, that’s the thing,” Ryan said. “You’d think I would have, right? Because they fought literally all the time. But actually I sort of—” He broke off with a shrug.
“Didn’t see it coming?” Gabby supplied.
“I did not see it coming,” Ryan admitted. “I know it’s probably better in the long run, for my mom at least. But it still sucks a massive wang, Gabby, I will tell you.” He shrugged again. “Thanks for letting me borrow your normalfamily tonight, is I guess what I’m saying.”
Gabby snorted. “They’re not normal,” she assured him, glancing down and picking at a loose thread in the seam of her jeans. “I think I’m pretty solid evidence of that.”
“Whatever,” Ryan said, and it sounded like he meant it. “Everybody’s got something, right?” When she looked up he was smiling at her, lopsided. She wished she didn’t like his smile so much. “You feeling any better now?” he asked.
Gabby hesitated, realizing with no small amount of surprise that shewas. He had, in fact, successfully distracted her out of her panic attack. It wasn’t a thing a lot of people knew how to accomplish, and she doubted he’d done it on purpose or even with any awareness that that’s what he was doing, but there it was.
“Yeah,” she said slowly. “I am. I mean, not better like I want to go into your party? But better like I’m not going to suffocate and die.”
Ryan nodded. “Fair enough,” he said. “Do you want me to—” He broke off as the door opened and a giant dude with a crew cut ambled out through it, beer in hand. “Hey, McCullough,” he said, looking at Gabby with an expression that wasn’tquitea leer. “Who’s your lady?”
Ryan didn’t move at all, sprawled casual and content across the stoop, but Gabby watched as something in his expression changed in a way that made her think of goalies putting on a thousand layers of protective gear. She felt herheart trip again, anxiety spiking, but Ryan’s grin, when it came, was calm as the surface of a lake.
“Don’t be a dick,” he said, tilting his chin in her direction. “This is my friend Gabby.”
NUMBER 8
