13. I’ll Be Damned #2
Sliding her legs slightly apart in the chair, I crouch and kneel in front of her.
I lift her chin gently, bringing her gaze to mine.
I’ve had my fair share of panic attacks, so I recognize the signs immediately—and I’m certain that is what’s happening to her as I watch her chest rise and fall rapidly, clearly hyperventilating.
Panic attacks can be triggered by several things, I think, based on Jasmine’s and my conversation about them.
Physical triggers, situational, PTSD, stress. And she’s definitely had plenty of stress tonight.
Her eyes finally find mine, tears glistening in them. Stroking my thumb over her cheek, I try to coax her, knowing that having an anchor can pull you out of it.
I take a deep breath in, “Take a breath.” I demonstrate, urging her to follow my instruction. She takes one in and out with me.
Then another.
And another.
I smile. “And blow it out,” I instruct as we both exhale one last time, her breathing now steady.
Footsteps approach us, and I quickly rise. Aubrey stays seated, still staring out the window of the ER’s waiting room.
“THANK YOU!” a voice bellows out as a middle-aged woman approaches. I assume it’s Tatum’s mother coming to update us.
She continues to thank us several times, explaining that he’s expected to be fine. Just a concussion from hitting his head on the ice, but thankfully, no open wound to his head or any injuries to his neck.
I don’t intend to be rude, but as soon as I learn he’s alright, my attention is anywhere but on her. The only person holding my attention now is Aubrey, who sits in the parlor, staring ahead like she’s seen a ghost.
When Tatum’s mother thanks us one last time before we say our goodbyes, I tell her to give Tatum my best wishes.
Aubrey doesn’t say anything—still frozen in silence.
“Aubrey,” I call.
She flinches, like she’s being awakened from a nightmare. She doesn’t move at first, and I’m growing increasingly concerned. I lean forward, clutching both her shoulders as I inch closer.
I can’t help but notice how near we are, that the last time we were this close was over a year ago, when she pressed our final kiss to my lips, and I hadn’t even known it’d be the last.
The hundreds of kisses and moments spent together are all but a memory now.
“Aubrey, he’s alright.”
I figure maybe she’s just in shock about what happened. It was definitely scary, as we weren’t certain of the depths of his injury. But she heard Tatum’s mother say he’s going to be alright. It could have been so much worse; we should be relieved.
The muscles in my jaw twitch, and she looks at me—her pupils blown wide.
What is happening to her?
She blinks.
Once. Twice.
Then, in a whirlwind, she’s sprinting out of the ER and back to my Jeep.
I try talking to her before I drive her home, but she’s only staring out the window. She doesn’t even flinch away when I try tapping her shoulder.
Now, I’m starting to freak out a bit.
I try everything to bring her back to me.
First, I offer to stop at Lover’s and get her a burger, her favorite place to eat, but she shakes her head. Then I turn on her favorite song, the one she can’t help but sing along to: “Sparks” by Coldplay.
She doesn’t sing a word.
I crack a soft smile as I turn the A/C on full blast. It’s three days before Thanksgiving in northernmost Michigan, so that means we’re well into freezing temperatures.
I know just how much Aubrey hates being cold, thinking she’ll at least crack and start calling me a dumbass for having the A/C on this time of year.
I let the cool temperature take over the car, but she doesn’t react.
She doesn’t say anything.
And now Aubrey isn’t the only one having a panic attack.
I swallow. My eyes glance at her every second they can spare while I drive.
Her body starts trembling. And I don’t know if it’s the shock or the cold, but I immediately turn on the heated seat and crank the heat as high as it will go.
What the hell was I thinking, turning on the A/C? I’m so ignorant. Why do I always fuck everything up?
Reaching over, I keep a hand on the steering wheel and use my right arm to pull her toward my chest.
The center counsel separates us, but she is violently shaking, and I feel like an ass for freezing her out. I rub her shoulder as I tuck her into my side, pulling my Jeep into her condo’s drive.
“God, Aubs, you’re scaring me.”
At the use of her nickname, she finally shows some emotion and pulls herself away from where I was trying to keep her warm. When I park, I quickly get out and open her door. She doesn’t move.
“Aubrey.”
She undoes her seatbelt. But then she just sits there.
Her tears start falling uncontrollably as she brings her knees to her chest. She chokes on sobs, her face reddening as she cries.
Opening the door as wide as I can, I pick her up in my arms.
She doesn’t fight my hold, and I know that’s not a good sign, no matter how much I might relish her allowing me to be this close again.
But nothing about this is right—nothing about holding her like this feels natural.
My own pulse beats wildly now, my concern for her driving my second dose of adrenaline for the night. But this time, I know I can’t freeze; I have to act.
When I enter the condo, I’m surprised when none of her cousins greet us at the door. I wish someone were home, so maybe they might understand what’s happening—why she had a panic attack at the hospital—what might have triggered it.
I climb up the stars as Aubrey tucks her head to my chest, her cries still shaking her whole body.
When I get to her room, I lay her on the bed and stroke her hair from her face.
“I’ll be right back,” I whisper as I leave her to make my way into the bathroom.
Turning the knob all the way to the red, I draw a bath for her, knowing she needs to be warmed up.
She was still shaking in my arms when I held her.
But considering I practically froze her out in the Jeep, my dumb ass thinking it might snap her out of it, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that she’s so cold.
When I go back to her, she’s breathing better, her face red from tears, but she seems less lost in her thoughts, her eyes tracking me as I move around the room.
I pick her back up, but she still doesn’t protest.