Page 30

Overheated and a little nauseated, I kick off the covers. I feel it, the tension in my stomach that always builds into my throat, strangling me. I try to take deep breaths but already it’s difficult, and I force myself to stand. To orient myself to the space in my room.

Everything feels narrow. The walls closing in.

I stagger out to the living room, where even Harold seems to know something’s wrong because he doesn’t make a sound as I slap my hand to the counter, the marble cool under my fingers. I dip my chin, inhaling and exhaling.

It doesn’t help, my heart beating out of my chest so hard and loud that it’s the only thing I do hear. Not the traffic outside or the door opening.

I thought it’d only been seconds, but apparently I’ve lost hours, because suddenly, Millie’s kneeling next to me on the floor.

“Austin, are you okay?” She presses her cool hands to my face, lifting it up. I blink my eyes open to find a worried expression. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you sick?” She brushes my hair back. “You’re all sweaty, but you don’t feel like you have a temperature.”

“I’m fine.”

“Then why are you out here on the floor?”

I nuzzle into her palm. “Don’t know.”

“You don’t know? Austin… Austin, look at me.”

I do, and I think she’s the only thing I want to look at for the rest of my life.

“Have you been drinking? Did you take anything?”

I shake my head. “I need air. I need to breathe.”

Her eyes make a circuit of my face before she nods once. “Okay, let’s go take a walk.”

She helps me to stand, staggering when she takes my hands to pull, but I can’t even find humor in it. Not when she’s so obviously worried about me.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her, standing in the middle of my living room in only my boxer briefs. I might not have been on a bender, but I almost wish I had. Might be less painful than this.

“You don’t need to be sorry.” She runs her small hand up and down my forearm, a sweet gesture that pours more life into me. Enough that when she points to my bedroom, asking if I’ll be okay to change on my own, I say, “You offering to help?”

“I can if you need me to.”

I take her hand in mine, rubbing my thumb over her knuckle. “I know you were being serious because you are a good person. I was joking because I’m an asshole.”

“Joking about me helping you get…? Oh.”

“I’m sorry for that too. It’s inappropriate.” But I don’t let go of her hand for a long time, and that’s probably inappropriate too.

Except at this moment, when I’m in my underwear and my skin is still damp with sweat, I’m not sure there is anything I can do to make it appropriate. So I simply tell her I’ll be ready in five minutes.

Outside, we walk in silence, crossing over the train tracks on Locust Street to the Schuylkill Banks Boardwalk, a bridge built over the water. It’s busy this morning with runners, cyclists, and people walking their dogs, although I don’t know if it’s ever not busy.

I’ve never been here before.

I’ve never taken the time to lean over the railing and stare down into the dark water of the river.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Millie asks, and I wrap my hands around the metal.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“No? No reason you were having some kind of panic attack?”