Chapter 21
SPENCER
EIGHT YEARS AGO
Ifeel like I’m suffocating all the time.
Like no matter how hard I breathe, I’m not getting enough oxygen in my lungs.
My vision blurs on the edges and the next thing I know, I’m shoving out of my desk and sprinting from the room.
The teacher calls after me, something about how I can’t leave and I don’t have a pass, but I don’t stop.
I keep going straight out the door until I make it to the center quad in the sunshine.
Bracing my hands on my knees, I try to breathe but I just fucking can’t. My body is working, taking in the air, but I still feel light-headed.
T.J. is gone.
His desk is empty.
Every day it’s a reminder that there’s a gaping hole in my life where my best friend was.
I stumble further, using the wall for support until I make it to the water fountain. With greedy gulps, I take in as much liquid as I can until it’s dribbling down my chin and onto my shirt.
“Are you okay?”
My shoulders tense in recognition at the voice.
I turn slowly and take in Harlow standing beside me with a worried frown. Her English textbook is clasped to her chest.
I don’t answer, just stare, and she cocks her head to the side.
“I think you’re having a panic attack. Come here.” She grabs my wrist and tugs me over to one of the benches that dot the center lawn.
I do as I’m told, mostly because I’m too weak to fight her.
She sets her book and backpack down beside her and takes my hand, holding it palm up. She traces her fingers gently over the lines in my hand. “Breathe,” she says. “Focus on my finger.”
I do as she says and feel my breaths slow.
She finishes tracing the one hand and grabs my other, giving it the same treatment.
She goes back and forth between my hands for a few minutes before she sits back and looks me over. “Better?”
“Yeah. A lot better.”
“Have you had a panic attack before?” she asks.
I nod. “It’s happened a lot since T.J. died.”
It’s only been two weeks. It’s still so fresh, but I feel like it’ll still feel that way a year from now, five years now, a decade from now—what do you mean I can’t just text my best friend? What do you mean he’s not going to graduate with me?
“I’m sorry,” she says softly, not quite meeting my eyes. “I really am. He seemed like a nice guy.”
“He was.” My throat feels constricted. “The best.”
Harlow presses her lips into a thin line. “If you’re feeling better, I better get going. My free period is almost over.”
“Oh.”
Sympathy rounds her features as she gathers her stuff up. “Try to take care of yourself. Okay? Think you can do that for me?”
I nod in response, words failing me.
I can tell she’s not sure about leaving me, but the bell rings and she’s forced to go.
My backpack is still in the classroom I fled from, and I know I should get up and go get it, but I can’t get my body moving.
Unshed tears burn my eyes as people pass by on their way to class.
I sit there until it’s silent and I’m basically alone again. A few minutes pass before someone stops in front of me.
I look up and find my teacher—Mrs. Kirks—with my backpack in hand.
“You can’t just run out of class, Spencer.” She puts my bag beside me on the bench.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
With a sigh, she sits down beside me with my backpack between us.
“I know you’re going through a lot right now, so I’m not writing this up, but I would like you to talk to the guidance counselor.
” I open my mouth to protest, but she gives me a look that tells me to shut my mouth.
“When I was twelve, I lost my brother to a bike accident. It was horrible and it affected me deeply, it still does, so I know what you’re feeling. Talking to someone helps. I promise.”
“I don’t want to.”
She smiles softly, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Yeah, I didn’t either. I almost waited too long to talk to someone, but having someone you can talk to helps even when it doesn’t feel like it will. Grief is never easy to deal with, especially when you’re young.”
Fuck. The tears that I’ve tried so hard to hold back—not wanting to be caught crying on school grounds—fall free.
“It’s not right,” I choke. “He was too young. People our age don’t die.”
“No one is invincible,” she says softly. “Tragedies happen every day.”
I know what she’s saying is the truth, but I don’t want to admit that. I’m too caught up in the unfairness of it all.
“I’m so angry,” I whisper, something I haven’t dared admit out loud to even my mom.
“Yeah, I felt that way too. Blamed myself even though I wasn’t there.” She shakes her head free of memories probably best left unvisited. “Come on, grab your bag.”
“Where are we going?” I ask, shouldering my backpack.
“To the office.”
“I told you; I don’t want to talk to the guidance counselor.”
With a sigh, she says, “Well, let’s make an appointment with her for a week from now and if you still don’t want to go then that’s okay.”
“You won’t judge me if I cancel on her?” I ask softly, slowing my steps to stay behind her.
“No,” she answers and gives me a significant look. “But you’ll judge yourself.”