Chapter 27 #2
“You’re having a panic attack,” he says, his voice steady. “Try to slow your breathing. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”
I try to follow his instructions, but the walls keep closing in, and my dress feels like it’s suffocating me.
“I can’t,” I gasp. “I can’t breathe.”
“Yes, you can.” His hands hover near my shoulders, not quite touching. “May I?”
I manage a jerky nod, and he gently guides me to sit on the floor of the elevator, his movements slow and deliberate, like he’s approaching a frightened animal.
“Well, this beats awkward party small talk,” he says, lowering himself to sit beside me. He loosens his tie with one hand, a casual gesture that somehow makes the space feel less formal, less threatening.
I stare at him, my panic momentarily interrupted by confusion.
“Sorry,” he continues, a small smile playing at his lips. “Inappropriate humor is my default setting in emergencies. But seriously, try breathing with me. In...” He demonstrates, taking a deep breath through his nose. “And out.”
Despite myself, I find my breathing starting to match his rhythm.
“There you go,” he encourages. “Much better than passing out on me. Though I have to say, if you were looking for a dramatic exit from the party, getting trapped in an elevator is pretty next-level.”
A strangled sound escapes me—something between a laugh and a hiccup.
“Sorry,” I manage, embarrassment creeping in as my panic subsides slightly. “I don’t usually ... it’s just small spaces.”
“Hey, no apologies needed.” He leans back against the wall, giving me space while still remaining close enough that I don’t feel alone.
“Everyone’s afraid of something. Me? I can’t stand spiders.
Complete meltdown if one gets anywhere near me.
Ask Genna about the bathroom incident of 2010.
Actually, don’t. She’s been sworn to secrecy. ”
This time, my laugh is more genuine. The walls aren’t pressing in quite so aggressively now, and I can take deeper breaths. “Hard to imagine you afraid of anything.”
“Oh, I’m afraid of lots of things,” he says, his tone light but his eyes serious as they meet mine. “Spiders. Heights. Disappointing people I care about.”
Something shifts in the air between us, a current of sincerity beneath the banter.
“Let me try the emergency button again,” he says, pushing himself up. This time, when he presses it, a crackling static fills the elevator, followed by a distant voice.
“Building maintenance. Is someone there?”
Relief floods through me as Dylan responds and explains our situation. The maintenance person assures us they’re aware of the problem—apparently, we’re not the only elevator affected—and they’re working on it, but it might take some time.
“Just sit tight,” the voice advises. “We’ll have you out as soon as possible.”
“How soon is ‘soon’?” I ask after Dylan thanks them and the line goes silent.
He shrugs, returning to sit beside me. “Before next New Year’s, hopefully.”
I groan, but the tight band of panic around my chest has loosened considerably. “Great. I’m trapped in an elevator in a too-tight dress with terrible shoes and no bathroom.”
“If it helps, the dress doesn’t look too tight from where I’m sitting,” Dylan offers, then immediately looks embarrassed. “I mean, it looks ... you look...” He clears his throat. “What I’m trying to say is, you look incredible.”
The compliment warms me despite my best efforts to remain immune to his charm. “Thanks to Genna’s intervention. She practically force-marched me into the store.”
“Remind me to thank her later.” His smile is softer now, less the practiced Dylan Williamston grin and more something real. “Though I have to say, I kinda miss the Cheyenne who wears messy buns and sweatpants.”
“Yeah, well.” I fidget with the hem of my dress. “New year, new me, right?”
“I like the old you just fine,” he says quietly.
We sit in silence for a moment, the only sound our breathing and the faint hum of the emergency lights. Despite the circumstances, I feel calmer now, the panic attack receding like a tide going out.
“So,” Dylan says finally, his tone deliberately casual. “No Garrett tonight?”
I look up sharply, searching his face for the meaning behind the question. His expression is carefully neutral, but there’s something in his eyes—a tension, a hope—that makes my heart beat faster for reasons that have nothing to do with claustrophobia.
“No Garrett,” I say, meeting his gaze directly. “Not tonight. Not ever again.”
His eyebrows lift slightly. “No?”
“I blocked him,” I continue, the words coming easier than I expected. “After Christmas. I’m never going back.”
The relief that washes over his face is so raw, so undisguised, that it takes my breath away. “Good,” he says simply. “He didn’t deserve you.”
The sincerity in his voice makes something crack open inside me—something I’ve been maintaining since Christmas.
“Why do you care?” The question comes out before I can stop it.
Dylan looks startled, then thoughtful. He runs a hand through his hair and shifts to face me more directly.
“Because I care about you,” he says. “More than I’ve ever cared about anyone. And that scares the heck out of me.”
The confession hangs in the air between us, impossible to take back, impossible to ignore. My heart hammers against my ribs, and for a moment, I can’t find words.
“You said we were just friends,” I manage. “At Christmas. In front of your whole family.”
He winces, genuine regret flashing across his features.
“I know. And I’ve been kicking myself ever since.
” He takes a deep breath, as if gathering courage.
“The truth is, Chey, I don’t want to be just friends with you.
I haven’t for a while now. But when my dad made that joke, and everyone was looking at us, I panicked.
I said the exact opposite of what I was feeling. ”
“And what were you feeling?” I ask, barely above a whisper.
His eyes meet mine, vulnerable in a way I’ve never seen from him before. His hand moves tentatively across the small space between us, not quite touching mine, but close enough that I can feel its warmth.
“Like maybe that article wasn’t so wrong after all,” he says softly. “Like maybe the guy in that jewelry store photo—the one looking at you like you’re the best thing he’s ever seen—that’s the real me. Not the ‘Hockey Playboy.’ Not the Instagram celebrity.”
My breath catches in my throat, and for a moment, the elevator feels too small again—not from claustrophobia, but from the weight of what he’s saying, from the intensity in his eyes as they hold mine.
“I mean it,” he says, voice even lower. “You make me want to be better. For me. For you.” He lets out a breath and gives this small, self-deprecating laugh. “Which sounds totally cliche, but I swear it’s true.”
He glances away, runs a nervous hand along the back of his neck.
“I know I’ve screwed up a million times.
That night at Christmas, I—” He stops. His jaw flexes, hard, like he’s debating if it’s even worth explaining.
“I thought I’d be doing you a favor by keeping things chill around my family.
I didn’t want to mess up what we had, or move too fast. But .
.. I was just being a coward. I was afraid of rejection, of messing up, of not being taken seriously, of you getting back together with Garrett. ..”
He’s rambling now, and I recognize it for what it is: the rare moments Dylan gets so tangled inside his own head, he can’t find his usual smooth exit.
“I’m not always gonna say the perfect thing. And lately, it’s like ... no matter how many times I rehearse what I want to say, the moment I look at you, it gets stuck in my throat.” Another huff of air, another sheepish grin.
He finally meets my gaze again, and the intensity there nearly knocks me over.
“But you’re worth the effort. And I just .
.. I guess what I’m trying to say is ...
I really, really care about you, Chey. And up until now, I always prided myself on not caring.
About anyone. Because in my mind, that was easier than getting hurt.
But it turns out that actually just makes you kind of hollow, and lonely in a way you don’t even realize until something wakes you up.
Or someone.” His eyes flicker with naked vulnerability, as if he’s afraid I’ll laugh, or worse, pity him.
“You woke me up. And now I can’t go back to how things were before. I don’t want to.”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I’m pretty sure my brain has stalled from pure emotional whiplash.
“I know I sound like a total idiot, but if you wanted to give me, like, an actual shot ... I’d try my hardest not to blow it.”
The elevator is silent for a few heartbeats, the tension vibrating so high my skin feels electrified. I realize I’ve crumpled the hem of my dress in my fists, and I force myself to let go, slow and deliberate.
A dozen reasons to push him away crowd to the front of my mind.
I could list them in alphabetical order: best friend’s brother, complicated history, my own ridiculous baggage.
But none of it matters when his hand finds mine, tentative and feather-light, and curls his fingers around mine the way you hold something fragile and precious.
He doesn’t move closer, doesn’t try to force anything. Just holds my gaze and waits, like the ball is in my court now.
Which, I guess, it is.