It’s an addictive feeling. One I fear I could come to crave more and more.
I do, you know. Miss you.
I close my eyes and smile to myself in the dim lighting of the hotel room, settling down under the covers and letting my head fill with thoughts of her as my chest swells with something that feels a lot like yearning. For the first time in a while, I’m not thinking about the next game, or worrying about my play time, or even stressing about how soon Coach might bench me.
No, right now…I’m only thinking about getting back to Abby.
Twenty-One
Abby
I know that technically I shouldbe prepared for this eventuality, but when the professor starts talking about childhood abandonment issues in class the next day, I forget all the hardening I’ve done on my heart.
“—and of course, outside of serious legal consequences, childhood abandonment can have many psychological consequences as well,” he’s saying.
I squirm in my seat, remembering the text from my father that morning and thinking to myself that things might have been so much simpler had he just kept on with the whole abandonment thing instead of barging back into my life.
“And this doesn’t strictly refer toactualabandonment,” the professor goes on. “When a child is emotionally neglected or ignored, it can lead to feelings of loneliness or insecurity, and sometimes really long-term psychological effects.”
My heart rate quickens, my breath coming a little shorter as I slink down further into my chair in the lecture hall. I feel sickwith self-loathing; if I can’t evenlistento these things, how on earth can I expect to help others with issues like these?
“People who come from situations of being abandoned as a child can grow up to have a serious mistrust of others,” the professor is still saying. “Oftentimes, children that come from these situations grow into adults who are constantly finding reasons not to put their faith into those around them—too afraid that those people might abandon them much the same way that the prominent figure in their earlier life already did.”
I close my eyes and count to five, trying to calm my breathing. I can’t remember the last time I felt like this; my hands are sweating, and my chest feels too tight, and I can’t help but feel like everyone’s eyes are on me, like somehow theyknowthat the professor is talking about me specifically. Which, I know he isn’t, Iknowthat—but it doesn’t stop my heart from pounding. Doesn’t stop my throat from feeling like it’s closing up just a little.
“Another common side effect of childhood abandonment can be a fear of letting go of relationships that aren’t exactly healthy for a patient,” my professor says. “Sometimes patients will cling to toxic relationships out of the fear of being without them. As ifanyrelationship is better than none at all.”
That one stings the most. Mostly because I know it’s true. Here I am, clinging to this toxic thing with my dad out of some misguided reasoning that one day he’ll come around andbean actual dad—and it’s all laid out there in our textbooks, just how stupid that is. It’s like everything I’ve been doing is right there on display, a shining beacon of my own idiocy.
And suddenly I can’t listen to it anymore.
I’ve never left a class early in my entire college career, but when I abruptly stand and give the professor a mumbled excuseabout not feeling well, he thankfully gives me a brief nod and excuses me without pressing me on it. I know I’ll have to ask to borrow someone’s notes—something that will be even more of a pain, since I don’t exactly have friends in this class—but that’s a problem for tomorrow me. Right now I just need to get out of this fucking room.
I stomp down the halls at double speed until I’m bursting out the building doors, taking in thick lungfuls of fresh air as my heart continues to pound behind my ribs. It’s strange that in that moment there’s only one voice I want to hear, even stranger that Idon’thear one that I’ve been fighting with for the last several months.
I dial his number with shaky hands, feeling only a little guilty knowing he most likely just got in from the airport.
“Abby?”
“Jack,” I breathe.
His voice immediately fills with concern. “What’s wrong?”
“Can you come get me?”
“Tell me where you are.”
And he doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t ask why, and in that moment, I couldn’t be more grateful.
I let him know where I’ll be waiting for him, and he doesn’t ask a single follow-up before promising that he’ll be there soon.
I slump down onto a nearby bench as I continue to try to collect air, realizing that it comes easier now. After talking to Jack, I finally feel like I can breathe a little.
That might freak me out if I weren’t already at a ten.
As it is, I just close my eyes as I rest against the bench, waiting for him to come pick me up and praying that my pulse decides to calm before my heart explodes.
Jack shows up less thana half hour later, slamming the driver’s side door to his car and stomping over to me with concern in his eyes before he crouches in front of me.
