Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
Fox
I glance down at the gold band on my finger.
I’ve been waiting for the guilt to come, and it hasn’t.
Bear said I should’ve taken it off months ago.
But I wasn’t ready yet. Today feels different.
It’s time to try again. The ring struggles over my knuckle, and it comes off with a long tug.
It’s so small in my palm. My heart clenches and I can’t breathe, but the pain doesn’t last as long as it did in the past.
My finger feels weird as I take the subway to work, but once I get to my desk, it’s all but forgotten—except every time I look down and see my naked finger.
I’m through three meetings and updating the numbers for The Four Families legit business when I stretch and check my email.
Important update about your medication.
We regret to inform you that we will no longer be carrying your medication as of October 1st. Please reach out to your doctor to make arrangements.
I blink a few times. This can’t be real. No. It has to be a mistake.
I log onto my insurance website, my heart pounding and ringing in my ears. The same notification pops up. The chatbot repeats the message over and over: regrettably, we were unable to reach an agreement with the pharmaceutical company.
Even Reddit forums explode with outraged patients.
My fingers shake as I call Dr. Hanversford. I have his personal number, and he picks up on the third ring. I’m not even done explaining the bullshit the insurance is pulling when he sighs.
“I knew this might be coming. We talked about this at the last appointment—surgery is a great option for you.”
No. No. I’m going to fucking die because the one medication that actually works won’t be covered.
“How much?” I’m able to squeak out. “Meds—out of pocket?”
The ringing in my ears makes it hard to hear, but I think he said, “Ten thousand.”
I drop the phone. The room closes in. The air feels like fire. I’m vaguely aware someone calls my name, but I need to get out of here.
I’m going to die.
The world starts to darken at the edges of my vision. No—I need to calm down or I might trigger an event.
I try taking deep breaths, but the best I can manage are short gasps that don’t do anything.
Calm the fuck down.
Shit. I’m so close to six months … so fucking close.
Doesn’t matter—I’m going to die anyway. I push open a door and I’m hit with a million beams of light. Shit, this is so much worse. Where the fuck am I?
I can’t breathe and all the signs are coming, I'm seconds away from disaster.
“Hey, look for five things that you can see.” The voice cuts through my pain and panic.
Two hands grab my arms. “Say five things now.”
“There’s a yellow fabric cushion.” It’s the first thing I see. What’s it on? “A metal outdoor chair.” I swallow. What else? “Astroturf.” I think I know where I am. I turn my head to confirm. There’s the square of concrete. “Trash can.” And next to it, “Soda machine.”
The voice says, “Great job. Can you take four little breaths for me?”
Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Cough. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.
“Let's keep going. Can you find three things you can smell?”
“Some guy’s cherry vape.” I breathe in. “Stale coffee.” I can’t smell it, but I assume there’s that smell. “Pizza.”
The voice laughs, and something about it calms me. “That’s my lunch. Once we get you somewhat regulated I’ll share it. Can you take two medium breaths?”
Inhale … Exhale. Inhale … Exhale.
“Awesome, let’s work with colors. Can you find something black?”
Female. Whoever I’m talking to is female.
“My shoes.”
“Can you find something pink?”
“The stripes on your shirt.”
“Can you find something green?”
I already said the astroturf. “Your eyes.”
Green eyes surrounded by long lashes. Eyes that seem so familiar. The voice that feels like a soft hug. Pink lips curling into a smile.
“Take one deep breath.”
Inhale, hold, exhale.
“Find one thing to touch.”
I reach for the hands that grip my arms and clutch onto them. “Your hands.”
“Great job.” Her face finally comes into view. The darkness around the edges of my world fades, but the lingering pressure on my chest won’t release its grip.
I can see who is standing in front of me. The concerned wrinkles at the sides of her eyes tell me she doesn’t think this is over. The roundness of her cheeks, the sparks of pink on her lips, her clothes. But this is wrong. I can see it and it doesn’t make any sense.
Kitten.
“We can go through it all again. I think you need a little more time.” She leads me to the patio chair and continues to hold my hands.
I shake my head. “No. I’m good.”
She frowns and gives me the biggest side-eye. “Oh, that’s not true.” She sits down on the chair across from me and a low rumble of air escapes her ass. She freezes and lifts her head. “It is very important to me that you know—that was the cushion. I did not fart.”
“It’s fine. Everyone does it.”
Her eyebrows raise. “I know, and when I do, I can clear a room, but I don’t want you falsely assuming I farted. It was the cushion.” She wiggles around. No sound. “Oh, come on!”
“I’m in the middle of a panic attack; I don’t care if you farted.” Her concerns are seriously out of whack. Why is she acting like this? It is kinda distracting, though.
She pushes her hair back and shifts. “Well, I’m very worried about it. What a shitty first impression, literally. And this fucking chair is making a liar out of me.” Oh, wait, she is trying to distract me to de-escalate the panic attack. It’s not going to work how she thinks it will.
“I kinda have bigger issues right now—my insurance cut off my meds, and I’m going to die.”
Saying it aloud almost starts the panic again. Worse, the shock and concern all over Kitten’s face makes it so much more real.
But she raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, but did you fart in front of a really hot guy?”
The laughter escapes my lungs, a cathartic rush of emotion.
“No, but I did just have a sweaty panic attack in front of a beautiful woman.”
She twirls her hair around her finger and, in an over-exaggerated way, lifts her shoulders and gushes, “Aww, you think I’m pretty.”
Breathing comes easier now, the pressure on my chest lessening with every ridiculous thing she does. “Well, you said I’m hot.”
She gasps and covers her mouth. “Oh my God.” She leans forward.
“Did you think I was talking about you?” Huh?
She motions to an eighty-nine-year-old man with hair coming out of his ears and pants hiked up to his nipples.
“He’s the love of my life.” She shakes her head. “This is sooo embarrassing for you.”
I laugh—full-on laughing, which makes me cough. She pushes her water bottle toward me and I take a large gulp. She shakes her head. “No concern about germs, huh?”
I hand the bottle back to her. “Your germs and farts weigh heavily on my mind.”
“I’m Amber.”
Fuck. I didn’t want to know her name. I don’t want her to see me like this.
I want her to think I’m strong, in control, and powerful—not an emotionally crippled ball of mental illness and a ticking time bomb.
I never wanted her to see the real me. But there’s no pity in her eyes, only compassion and concern.
And she did say she thinks I’m hot. “I’m Ryan. ”
She frowns. “That’s the whitest white-boy name ever. Do you work for the Alpha Dogggz?”
“No. Sorry.”
She shrugs. “They might have better insurance.”
“Maybe, but I’d rather take my chances.” Gallows humor.
Amber leans back in her chair and—once again—no noise. We both notice it, but I don’t want the joke to get old. She drums her fingers on the large armrest that’s been baking in the sun. “We could sit here and talk about what’s wrong and try to problem-solve, or we can talk about random shit.”
“Random shit.”
“I knew you were going to say that.” She crosses her legs and kicks her foot a little. “Who would win in a fight: three great white sharks or five hippos? Assuming it was a battlefield both could successfully maneuver in?”
We spend the next fifteen minutes talking about the most random shit. This woman made Fox break all his rules. And in one of Ryan’s darkest moments, she makes him laugh.
Her phone beeps. She checks the screen and exhales. “Apparently, if I don’t get back to work, the whole company will implode.” Amber stands. “It was really nice meeting you. Um…I come out here to eat lunch when the cafeteria doesn’t have Dr Pepper, which is like all the time.”
She’s offering to see me again. I don’t know why, but stupidly, I blurt, “Can I have your number?” Fox already has her number.
This is just an opportunity to fuck it all up.
And, yet… there’s a fuse inside of me growing shorter by the second, and I don’t know who will be in the blast radius when it goes off.
She hands me the paper with a satisfied, smug expression. “And you must provide factual evidence why you think ten wolverines could take out a moose.”
Amber gives me a half-smile as she leaves. It isn’t until she’s out the door and long out of view that I check my phone. It’s her real number. She gave Ryan her real number—and he didn’t even have to get her off to get it. Weird.