Chapter 7
Addison
I have half a mind to seek Graham out on my own accord, just to piss Cruz off. Doesn’t matter that I didn’t exactly feel much of a spark. Nope. Just the look on Cruz’s face would be worth it.
But as the days wear on, the idea becomes less and less appealing. I’m not about to go chasing down some man just to prove a point to some other man. I shouldn’t be thinking about men at all.
Since my hiking escapade ended so badly, I busy myself mainly with staying near the cabin or down by the ranch house.
I find myself falling into a little routine.
Early morning coffee on the porch, lying out in the sun and reading a book, and sometimes wandering down to the ranch house to spend time with Aunt Theresa, Tate, Lucy, and the kids.
And it is, actually, pretty relaxing. I’d scoffed at this whole idea when Mom first mentioned it, but I do feel better out here. But whether it’s the mountain air or the lack of parental pressure to do a job I just don’t fit in, it’s hard to tell.
I’ve also had practically no contact with the cowboy in a few days, which could be adding to my overall mood. Other than glimpsing him at the mess hall every once in a while, we haven’t crossed paths.
I shift in my chair, the wicker rustling softly underneath me. The sun has set, leaving just a golden glow over the mountains to dimly light the terrain. I close my book, taking in a deep breath. I should probably head inside. There’s barely enough light to read anymore.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, startling me. I grab it, pulling it up to see a familiar contact.
Mom.
I answer the call. “Hey,” I say stiffly.
“Addison,” she says in greeting. “Just calling to see how your first week in Montana went. Feeling any better?”
I swallow. She’s just checking in. Doing what a normal mom would. Asking how I feel. But underneath it all, I can still sense the pressure. She sent me out here for a reason, and she wants to know if it’s working. Check in on the return on investment.
“Good,” I answer. “And yeah, I’m feeling alright.”
“Alright?” she echoes.
“Good. I’m feeling good,” I amend.
“Well, don’t just say what you think I want to hear.”
I take a breath. “I’m not. I am actually feeling better.”
“Well good,” Mom says. “Have you been thinking about your role at the company any more? After you get back?”
I balk, torn between surprise and defeat. After all, I shouldn’t be surprised she’s bringing this up. It’s all she and Dad ever want to talk about. “Uh … no. I mean, I was relaxing. Not thinking about work stuff.”
Mom makes that huff noise of hers she brings out whenever she’s mildly displeased. “Well, yes, sweetheart, but the reason you’re taking this sabbatical is so you can reset and come back to work.”
“Yeah …”
“Are you taking this seriously?”
“Yes!” I answer, suddenly feeling defensive.
I’ve been here for a week for God’s sake.
What does she expect? For me to suddenly not be afraid of public speaking?
To no longer need antidepressants to function?
To suddenly love rubbing elbows with Seattle’s most insufferable people?
Besides, I didn’t even want to come here in the first place.
“Mom, what if I … what if I took on a different kind of role at the company?”
She’s quiet for a heartbeat. “What kind of role?” I can hear the hope in her voice. The pleasant surprise that I have, actually, been thinking about work. More accurately, how my work could change.
I steel myself. “More … administrative. Behind the scenes.”
“Oh. Addison, I don’t think—”
“I just don’t think I’m cut out for the limelight. I mean, doesn’t … the incident … kind of prove that?” I can’t bring myself to say it out loud. Panic attack. Public breakdown.
“Addison.” Her tone has shifted. “You’re our child. Our only child. And on top of that, you’re a young, beautiful, intelligent girl.” The praise falls on deaf ears. Because I know it’s only a means to an end. “You’re the perfect—no, the only—person to be the face of Seattle Luxe.”
Familiar disappointment creeps through me, and I find myself falling silent.
“Are you taking this sabbatical seriously?” she asks again. I resist the urge to scoff. Sabbatical. Even the term feels harsh. Filled with unspoken pressure.
“As seriously as I can,” I answer.
“What does that mean?” she snaps.
Anger spikes through me. “It means I’m trying, Mom.” My voice breaks, and I hate it. Trying. Trying to live up to her impossible standards. The role they want me to play. Breaking myself to fit a mold I don’t even like. I stare down at my lap, my hands beginning to shake.
She sighs, and even over the phone, I can hear her exasperation.
“It’s always something with you, Addison.
These invisible problems. The monster under the bed.
Being painfully shy. This obsessive fear of how others perceive you.
It’s too much!” I can practically hear her throwing her hands in the air.
I clench mine into a fist at my side. “You need to get over your fears. Over yourself.”
Her words are like a slap in the face, even though I’ve heard them many times before.
I clench my teeth, feeling the emotions sneaking up on me—the overwhelm, the fear. I’m afraid that if I speak, I won’t be able to stop it.
Mom sighs on the other end. “I’ll call you next week,” she says, and it feels more like a threat than a promise.
And then the call ends.
I squeeze my eyes shut, tears running down my cheeks.
Even though they’re hundreds of miles away, I can still feel my parents’ pressure.
Everything they want from me. Everything I keep failing to live up to.
Breathe, I tell myself. Anger cuts through the haze, and I cling to it, hoping it’ll be my savior—my way out of here.
I suck in a breath of air, resisting the urge to hurl my phone across the driveway, and instead, I let out a yell.
What does it matter? I’m in the middle of fucking nowhere.
But the haze is still coming, like a wave, faster and faster. The anger is slipping away, but I cling to it, screaming one last time into the night, hoping against hope that it’s enough to reset me—turn me off and on again like a power button.
Because what’s happening next isn’t normal—as my mother likes to remind me.
I sink to my knees as the world caves in around me. It’s a familiar feeling and yet every time it happens it’s just as terrifying.
I clench and unclench my fists, gasping for air like I’m drowning.
And I am. I am drowning. I am dying. I am truly and fully convinced of it.
Just like I am every time. The edges of my vision blur, and I fight to keep focus on the wood of the porch below me.
Focus on the lines, the knots, the stains.
There’s a sound somewhere nearby. A voice. And then the creaking of the porch stairs. Confusion cuts through the panic just enough for me to register a word.
“Addison!”
Strong hands grip my upper arms, pulling me up, and it’s then that I realize I’ve curled myself into a fetal position.
“What’s happening? Are you okay?”
My vision clears just enough to recognize the person in front of me—down on his knees, his hands on my arms, his expression creased with worry.
No. No, no, no. Anyone but him. “Go away!” I grit out, pushing him with all my might. But despite my desperation, it doesn’t seem to do much to deter him.
“Addison, what’s going on?” Cruz asks, his voice firm but also … scared?
He’s scared. My resolve to make him leave suddenly falters.
Because from the outside looking in, a panic attack is scary.
It’s scary no matter your perspective. As hard as my body is trying to convince me that I’m dying, deep down, I know that I’m not.
That this will all go away soon. That I just need to wait it out.
I shake my head, struggling for words. “I’m fine—I just—”
Cruz’s hands go from my arms to my face, holding me still, staring down at me like I’m a puzzle he desperately needs to decipher. “Do I need to call an ambulance?” he asks pointedly.
I squint my eyes shut and shake my head, torn between utter humiliation and sheer panic. But, as always, the panic wins.
A whimper escapes me as a fresh wave of panic spews forth. I keel forward, following the primal urge to fold in on myself. As if I can beat the fear from inside. But instead of feeling the rough wood of the porch below me, I meet resistance.
I open my eyes to find myself being folded into Cruz’s arms, pressed against his chest. I resist at first, but Cruz wins out. My shaking continues, but he squeezes me tight, subduing it to a degree. I clench and unclench my fists, hyperventilating as he begins to softly rock us back and forth.
“Breathe,” Cruz says quietly into my hair, his tone firm. Like how he’d ordered me to get on his horse the other day. Only this time, I want to listen. “Slow down.”
I focus on his words and doing as he says, forcing my chest to expand on my accord, not its own.
“Breathe,” he repeats.
He shifts slightly, his hand brushing against mine, and I reach for it, needing something—anything—to hold on to. His fingers thread mine, and I squeeze. Hard.
“Everything’s okay.” His voice is low and muffled by my hair, but just the sound of it is calming. Distracting. Pulling me from the depths of my soul. “You’re okay.”
And despite the fact that I wish it was anyone other than Cruz saying these things to me, holding me, rocking me back and forth, his words are soothing.
His presence is soothing.
His smell, the feel of his hard body against mine.
This cowboy who could probably chase away a literal monster, simply sitting here trying to chase away my fears.
I don’t know how long it takes for the panic to subside. I never really do. It always feels like hours. And sometimes it is. All I know is that I become very accustomed to the sound of Cruz’s beating heart as my mind slowly drifts off to sleep.