21. Adam
Chapter twenty-one
Adam
I don’t even remember falling asleep, but I’m definitely awake now.
Nicole quickly guides the car to the right shoulder of the highway. When she turns off the engine, I jump out of the car to check the damage. Hands on my hips, I survey the front of the car. Everything looks okay except for the front driver side tire. It’s totally shredded. What in the world happened? I survey the highway behind us and see a chunk of metal in the road.
My eyes dart to Nicole, still sitting in the driver’s seat. She’s gripping the steering wheel, knuckles white. Her eyes have a glazed look. I rush back to the open passenger side door and bend down to peer inside, my hands anchored on the roof of the car.
“What happened?” I wince at the bark in my words. I take a breath and try again. “Are you okay? ”
Nicole’s hands drop from the steering wheel and onto her lap. They’re shaking violently. She closes her eyes and leans her head back on the headrest.
“Nicole,” I say gently.
Her eyes open and turn toward me with a jerk. Her pupils are dilated, and I get the sense that though she’s looking at me, she can’t really see me. I take another deep breath, trying to slow my racing heart. I need to stay calm here. I slide into the passenger seat and lean toward Nicole.
“Nicole,” I say softly. “Are you hurt?” She doesn’t respond and I’m silently freaking out. “I’m going to check to see if you’re injured,” I tell her. It doesn’t make sense that she would be, though. It’s a flat tire—nothing would have happened to us inside the car. Even so, I gently turn her head, looking for anything amiss. I lean over her and check over her left side, down to her legs and feet. Everything looks okay.
Then, she speaks. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she says so haltingly and quietly that I strain to hear her. Her voice is tight, and I get the impression that getting these words out is difficult for her.
“No, you’re fine, Nicole. You don’t need to be sorry,” I reassure her.
A light bulb goes off in my head, and I lean forward, pulling out my phone. I surreptitiously google “how to help someone having a panic attack” and skim the results. First advice is to stay calm. Okay, I’m trying.
Provide reassuring words . “Hey, Nicole,” I say softly. “You’re okay. We’re okay. I’m here with you. I won’ t leave you.”
Encourage them to use grounding techniques. Um, okay. I keep reading to see what that means: Hold their hand or provide other reassuring touch. Yeah, I can do that. I gently reach forward and hold her hands between mine. She’s still trembling, but not as strongly as before. I rub circles on her hand with my thumb and keep up the reassuring words. “You’re safe,” I say. “I won’t leave you.”
Slowly, she leans forward, moving until her head rests against my chest. She still has her seat belt fastened, and it stretches as she shifts. I keep one hand connected to hers, wedged between our bodies, and the other I move to her back, caressing up and down.
We sit this way for several minutes. I breathe in and out slowly and steadily. Her breath starts out ragged, but soon syncs up with mine. Her pulse slows, too, back to a healthy tempo.
The circumstances suck but having her in my arms is everything. Protecting her. Helping her feel safe. My heart aches with the need to be there for her like this, be this person for her, always.
Finally, she sits up. “Thank you,” she says, not meeting my eyes. Her face is pale, her exhaustion clear. I brush a strand of hair from her forehead.
“Are you feeling better?” I ask gently.
She nods hesitantly, and I wait. She clears her throat. “It was a panic attack.”
“Have you had them before?”
She nods again, but I don’t press. Then, “I’m so sorry, Adam.” She finally meets my eyes, tears welling in hers. “Is your car okay?”
“Hey,” I say softly. “It’s fine. Just a flat tire.” I smile at her. “A really, really flat tire.” She smiles timidly back, and I ask, “Are you okay?”
“I’m embarrassed,” she admits. “You let me drive your car, and I messed it up. Then I had a panic attack in front of my coworker…” She trails off, looking away again.
I use my thumb to gently nudge her face back toward mine. “Maybe,” I say, “you didn’t have a panic attack in front of your coworker. Maybe you had a panic attack in front of your friend.”
She stares at me, her green eyes watery. “Yeah,” she whispers. “I think I did. My friend.” Her mouth tips up in a miniature smile.
Even this small concession, this small victory, thrills me. The elation spurs me to action.
“Alright, enough of this,” I say. “I need to find the closest tire place and put on the spare.”
Nicole grimaces, guilt flashing across her face. “How can I help?”
“You can help by resting.” I consider a minute. “But not in the car. I don’t want the jack to fall. Wait here.”
I pull the keys from the ignition and hop out of the car, circling around to the trunk. I open it and shuffle the suitcases around until I find what I need: a beach towel—clean, not sandy, because it’s been a while since I’ve been to the beach, but of course it’s in here anyway because, yuh know, Florida, where having a beach towel in your car at all times is practically the law—and a folded up beach chair. I walk closer to the line of trees bordering the shoulder and set up the chair. Then, I throw the towel over my shoulder and approach the open passenger side door, planting my palms against the roof of the car and bending to lean in.
“Can you slide over the console to get out this door?” I ask Nicole.
Before her panic attack started, she did pull the car a pretty safe distance away from the highway traffic speeding past, but I’d rather not take the chance. She nods, unbuckling her seatbelt, and lifts her hips up over the center console and into the passenger seat. I step back and take her hand to pull her the rest of the way out. I drape the towel over her shoulders and lead her to the chair. It’s not cold out, not really, but I’m hoping the towel will imitate the warm comfort of a blanket for her.
“This isn’t necessary,” she protests. “I can help you.”
I shake my head. “Rest, please. I’ll feel better.”
Nicole peers up at me, then silently nods and sits back against the chair.
I pull out my phone and search for service stations nearby. I have a tire plan with one of the national chains, but it’s too much to hope we’re close to one of their locations. But … huh. First result. It’s off the next exit, only about five miles away. Okay, then. I call them to check that they’ll honor my plan and to see if they have the tire my car needs in stock. Nicole watches me as I give a friendly mechanic named Jordan the information.
“Great!” I say. “We’re just a few miles east of you on the highway here, but I’ll change the tire, and we can drive over. Probably thirty minutes? Yeah, perfect. Thank you.”
I hang up and turn to Nicole. “Good news. They have the tire in stock, so it’ll be quick and easy for them to get us back on the road.”
In a small voice, she says, “I can pay for the new tire. It was my fault–”
“There’s no need,” I quickly interrupt. “It won’t cost anything. I bought a nationwide tire plan with them a while back, so it’s covered.”
I change the tire as quickly as I can, but the bolts are on pretty tightly, so it takes me a few tries to get them loose. Finally, about thirty-five minutes later, the spare tire is on. I pack everything back up in the car and get Nicole settled in the passenger seat. I drive us to the next exit and then down the road to the tire shop. Pulling into a parking spot, I ask Nicole to wait in the car, at least until we know what’s up.
A bell jingles as I push through the front door. I note a small waiting area with plastic chairs, a water dispenser with those little cone-shaped paper cups and crinkled hot rod magazines. It’s empty. Behind the desk at the other end of the small lobby, a large man stands at a computer. He looks up and greets me as I walk toward him.
“Uh, hi,” I start. “I called a little bit ago. I need a tire replaced on my Impala?”
The man introduces himself as Jordan, who I spoke with on the phone. He confirms that they have the tire my car needs in stock, and they can fit me in right away.
I walk back out to the car to get Nicole. We grab our snacks and water bottles. As we settle into the plastic chairs in the waiting area, I tell Nicole, “He said it will take about two hours. We should get to New Orleans by nine. Not soon enough to go to the welcome reception, but still, not too far behind schedule.”
She nods in response. “Again, Adam, I’m really sorry.”
“Again,” I smile. “It’s really not your fault.”
Nicole stares at the wall behind me, a faraway look in her eyes.
I quietly prompt, “Do you want to talk about it? Friend to friend?” I give her a gentle smile and my heart feels tight when she smiles back.
“I, um, I have pretty severe anxiety,” she says. I’m surprised, but I don’t interrupt her. “I’ve been anxious my whole life. Once when I was maybe four, I was backstage after a ballet recital. I let one of the teachers lead me all around searching for my bag—I even described it to her—because I just didn’t know how to tell her that I didn’t even bring a bag.” She shrugs. “Another time, I was maybe seven? There was this babysitter who took me and my sisters to the mall to get ice cream. The ice cream shop was upstairs, and we were going to have to go on an escalator to get there. I just couldn’t go on that escalator; I was too afraid. She spent like fifteen minutes trying to convince me it was fine and then got frustrated and we left. Molly was so mad at me. It was my fault we couldn’t get ice cream. When Mom found out, she was mad, too, at the babysitter. Never hired her again. The next day Mom bought all the fixings for ice cream sundaes—chocolate sauce, caramel, sprinkles, whipped cream. We had so much fun. Molly forgave me.
“Around middle school, I started having symptoms of depression too. All the hormones and everything. I was a pretty morose teenager. Angsty with no reason to be. A little emo, a little goth, but without ear gauges or anything. I could never stand how those looked. I usually wore all black.”
Again, I’m surprised, but I want her to continue, so I say nothing. Instead, I reach for her hand, tucking it inside my own.
“It got pretty bad. I had a lot of dark thoughts. Dark emotions. My parents took me to the doctor, and I started taking medication. Things were much better after that. I felt more like myself. Even with the medication, I’ll always feel a little anxious, especially when I’m stressed. But the depression has only come back once. After I graduated from college during my first semester in library school.”
Nicole stops talking for so long that I wonder if she’s done.
I clear my throat. “What happened?” I ask. “I mean, did something trigger it?”
She looks up at me, her eyes glassy. I’m about to tell her that she doesn’t need to say, doesn’t need to talk about it anymore, when she drops her head and continues.
“My, uh, boyfriend at the time,” she starts. Her eyes flick up to mine for a tiny moment. “We went to college together and dated for over three years. After we graduated, we both stayed local. I was in library school, and he was, well, mostly couch surfing and looking for a job. He ran hot and cold. Either I was the love of his life and he couldn’t get enough of me, or he couldn’t stand to be near me and froze me out. Sometimes within the same week. I, um, I took it very personally. I was in love with him. My anxiety was through the roof because I never knew where I stood with him. I second-guessed everything I did around him, everything I said. I would lie in bed after hanging out with him and dissect every word, convinced that if I had only worded things this way or didn’t talk about whatever, he would love me better.” She puffs out a long breath. “Obviously things were pretty toxic, but I didn’t realize it at the time. When he finally broke up with me, I started seeing a therapist more often, in addition to the medication.”
She stops now and meets my eyes, flashing me a sheepish smile. As if she’s ashamed. As if she’s the one who was in the wrong. My hands are bunched into fists, knuckles pressing into my thighs. I don’t remember ever being as mad as I am right now. I’m not an angry person. I remind myself that anger is not going to help Nicole right now. I breathe a deep breath through my nose and release the air through my mouth.
“Nicole,” I start, but my voice sounds scratchy. I clear my throat and try again. “I’m honored you trust me enough to share that with me. I wouldn’t have guessed.”
“I’m in such a better place now,” she rushes to say. “Really, I am. Like I said, though, the anxiety never really goes away, and every once in a while, I have a panic attack, like the one today.”
She pauses and her eyebrows pinch together, as if she’s trying to solve a riddle. “I’ve never before come out of an attack as quickly as I did today,” she says slowly.
The intense green of her eyes captures me and I can’t look away. Not that I want to. She’s holding me in place with just her gaze, and I can hardly breathe. Before I can say or do anything to act on the impulse to reach for her and crush her against my chest, to shield her from tough emotions and jerk ex-boyfriends, she exhales a long breath, shaking her head quickly back and forth .
“Anyway,” she smiles. “You were awesome today.”
The quick transition is enough to give me whiplash. Nicole’s saying she’s done talking about it. Message received.
I force a smile. “Nah,” I say.
She pushes on. “You really were! Changing the tire. And the fact that you happened to have a chair in your trunk. You are prepared.” She pauses, then smirks. “You were a boy scout, weren’t you?”
I feel the tops of my ears warm. “I made Eagle,” I admit.
After just under two hours of sharing our Buc-ee’s snacks, laughing, and joking together, we’re on the road again.