I reach up and catch his chin, tilting his head so he has to look at me. “Ash,” I say firmly. “It’s okay to take risks. Even if it doesn’t work out, it’s alright to fail. It’s not the end of the world.”
He lets out a quivering breath and shakes his head, his jaw tightening. “No, it’s not okay.”
“What’s the worst-case scenario? You lose some money?” I shrug. “So what? You’ll make up for it next harvest season.”
He shakes his head stubbornly. “Troy, you don’t understand.”
“What don’t I understand?”
His face twists into a mixture of pain and fear. “If I fail, if I mess up, it doesn’t just hurt me. It hurts my family. It hurts everything we’ve built. And—shit. I can’t even imagine how my parents would react. They’d be so disappointed, so ashamed of me.”
His voice is wobbly and low. He doesn’t sound like himself.
“Ash—”
“I can’t—” He cuts himself off, eyes squeezing shut as his throat bobs. “I can’t disappoint them. I can’t ruin the Tremblay reputation. I can’t—”
His breath hitches.
At first I think he’s just frustrated. Then his chest rises too fast. His fingers curl in on themselves, knuckles going white.
“Ash?” I say more quietly.
He tries to inhale again, but it comes out wrong—short and sharp, like the air is lodged in his throat.
“Oh, shit,” I murmur.
His eyes fly open, wide and glassy. “I—I can’t—”
His words fracture apart as his breathing speeds up, turning into shallow gasps. Panic floods his face, his shoulders lifting with every frantic breath.
“Ash, hey. Look at me.”
I reach for him, but he’s already sinking to the cold concrete floor. His back bumps lightly against the brick wall, hands trembling as they clutch at the front of his flannel like he’s trying to tear it from his chest.
“I can’t—breathe—” he chokes.
I sit down beside him immediately and pull him against me.
“Hey. Hey, I’ve got you.” I wrap an arm around his shoulders, pressing my palm firmly against the back of his head so he can tuck his face against my chest. His breaths are coming fast and ragged, each one sounding like it hurts.
He gasps. “It’s too much. I can’t—”
“Listen to me,” I say softly, rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades. “We’re gonna focus on what’s around us, okay? Name five things you can see.”
He hiccups through his sobs. “Troy—”
“Five things, baby.”
He sniffles and pulls away from my chest. When he opens his eyes, they’re heavy-lidded and unfocused, the bright emerald dulled to a washed-out green.
He drags in a slow breath. “Your shirt,” he whispers.
I nod. “Good, baby. Four more things you can see.”
He rocks slightly where he sits on the floor, blinking hard as he scans the room. “The—um, tanks,” he says, voice trembling. He exhales through his nose. “The windows. The brick walls. The door.”
I squeeze his shoulder. “Good. Now four things you can feel.”
