Chapter 9
EMORY
My chest constricts, tightening in that way that makes my breaths come out a little faster, a little harder. I breathe in through my nose, hoping it’ll fill my lungs and lessen the anxiousness that rests just beyond my breastbone.
It doesn’t.
It doesn’t calm my body or my brain.
If anything, it just gets worse.
I squeeze my eyes shut, clutching my phone in my hands and press my back against the bathroom wall. It’s not the one in our bedroom—I was too afraid of waking Lance again.
My hands turn sweaty, and eventually, I drop my phone, watching as it clatters to the tiled floor.
“Oh my god, Emory,” I mutter to myself, my breaths shallow. “Get it together.”
I tell myself this, but it’s not as simple as words leaving my mouth. It’s so much more than that. Getting a hold of myself feels like the hardest thing in the world.
So, I do the one thing I probably shouldn’t.
I pick up my phone and scroll my contacts until I find Dr. Cole’s number—I added it to my phone after I left my last appointment, afraid I’d lose the little piece of paper. I liked to think I’d never need it, but, well, we can’t be right about everything all the time.
There’s this fine line that exists between us—doctor and patient—but, I… I need someone. I can’t do this alone. I’m tired of the loneliness that encompasses my heart every single day.
I hit the call button before I can convince myself how bad of an idea this is. It’s one thing seeing him once a week during my appointments. It’s another thing entirely having him on speed dial.
The phone rings and rings and rings.
My eyes catch on the time in the corner when I double-check that the call doesn’t disconnect—2:12 a.m. I don’t know what I’m doing, what I’m thinking.
The ringing continues until, eventually, it stops entirely, indicating that no one picks up. My god, what did I expect? I let out a sad laugh, one that turns into a raw sob. It’s the middle of the night. I shouldn’t be calling anyone, let alone my therapist.
Nope, nope, nope.
I set my phone in my lap at the same time it vibrates, the screen lighting up with his name. DAWSON (DR. COLE) stretches across the electronic device, and my heart hiccups, hope jumping up and down inside of me like a little kid excited over getting exactly what they wanted for their birthday.
I lift it, hit the answer button, and press the phone to my ear as I rub circles into my chest with my other hand. I struggle to pull in a deep breath, thanks to my impending anxiety. “H-hello?”
“Emory?” Dawson’s voice is gravelly, and my heart stumbles over that fact. He sounds deliriously sexy—something I shouldn’t even be thinking at a moment like this.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“What’s wrong?” His voice grows an octave louder, and I imagine him sitting up in bed and running his hand through those tight curls, messy from hours of sleep that I can’t seem to get myself. “It’s late.”
“I know, I’m sorry.” I suck in another breath, keeping my eyes closed as I focus solely on his voice. “I just… I couldn’t sleep, and I—”
“Another nightmare?”
“Y-yes.” The one word is wobbly as it comes out. And quiet. Like I’m ashamed. And maybe I am, because I should be stronger than this. I should be able to handle a nightmare, not react like a six-year-old when their tablet grows legs in their dreams and says scary, mean things.
He clears his throat, that sleepiness that was present a second ago a little less noticeable. “Where are you?”
“On the floor.”
A grunt leaves him, but I’m not sure what the cause of it is. I wish I could see him. Feel his presence next to me instead of just through the phone. “Tell me what you’re feeling.”
“My chest,” I say, trying to get another lungful of air, “is tight. I’ve tried calming myself down, but… I can’t. All I keep thinking about is the room filling up with water again.”
“It was the same dream as the last time?”
I swallow down a hard gulp and let my eyes flutter shut. “Yes, but it was so much worse.” The water rushed in faster, and Lance and Larissa were quicker in their retreat. All the love Lance once had for me vanished completely as he berated me with a cold heart and colder words.
“Alright,” he breathes out. “You’re going to be okay, you hear me? Keep trying to pull in those deep breaths. While you do that, can you close your eyes for me?”
I sink back into the wall, my shoulders relaxing a fraction. You’re not alone anymore. There’s someone here with you. And he’s going to help you. He’s not going to leave you stranded. He’s not going to spit vicious words at you or make you think you’re your own worst enemy.
He’s not going to let you drown, Emory.
“They are closed already.”
“Perfect. We’re going to focus on our other senses until that weight you feel in the middle of your chest gets lighter and lighter.”
I nod even though he can’t see me, my head rocking against the wall. I whisper, “Okay.”
“Focus on your sense of touch. What do you feel at this moment? It can be anything, Emory. There’s no wrong answer or way to describe it.”
“I…” I consider his words, really trying to let go and soak in his question.
What do I feel? My arm is bent, my hand holding the phone up to my ear, and it’s warm from my grip on it.
“The phone. It’s heavy in my hand but not too much.
And my body… I feel the way it’s pressed against the floor and wall. ”
“Is the floor cold?”
I think about that for a second. “Yes. I didn’t realize it before because I’m having a hot flash.”
A rough breath comes through the receiver and then, “What else?”
“It’s cold and hard; the floor and the wall. It’s uncomfortable, but in a way, the opposite, too. It feels better than the bed.” Anywhere else would be better than lying on that mattress after the vivid nightmares I have.
My breath hitches at the thought, and I realize I’m in the middle ground, in this territory between wanting to feel better and not.
Dawson must notice because he says, “Keep breathing. In through your nose and out through your mouth. I want to hear it, Emory.”
I suck in a sharp breath, my nostrils narrowing as I follow his directions. My chest expands, and I try to find that weightlessness. I chase it like I’m a kid again, trying to catch the butterflies I always found so pretty.
“That’s it. You’re doing so good, honey.”
His praise catches me by surprise and those flying little creatures zip through my stomach, especially when I stumble on my breath and lock in on one word in particular—honey.
I’m not sure he even realizes he says it because he just keeps talking. “One more time. Let me hear your breath again. And don’t cut yourself short. Relax into it and loosen your body. Wherever your muscles feel tight, actively try to release your hold on them.”
I give myself a mental once-over, noticing that he’s right. My shoulders and jaw and calves are beyond rigid, like they’re bracing for a fall or hit that’s two seconds out. In reality, the impact never comes, but I’m stuck in that place, preparing for collision anyway.
I roll my shoulders to smooth out the tightness in them. My jaw is next. I unhinge it and let it hang, forcing the joint to open up and unwind. I breathe, and then do the same to my calves, loosening them the best I know how.
“Okay, I’m done. I was more tense than I realized.”
“I know,” he murmurs, like he’s right next to me smoothing his hands down over my shoulders and arms as he assesses how my panic attack physically affects me.
His soft breathing sounds through the phone, and I let it brush against the shell of my ear and across my skin until it’s the only thing I feel.
He whispers, “Are you safe?”
It’s disheartening knowing I have to think about it rather than it being an instinctive response.
I open my eyes, seeing the glowing light of the fixture over the mirror and sink.
It waterfalls down over the small space, reaffirming that I am, in fact, inside my house and not in the middle of the ocean.
“I’m safe,” I confirm quietly.
I breathe a little easier knowing that there’s nothing around me that can get me, that can take me and hold me down to a point that I can’t get oxygen.
That anxiousness that had me in its grasp minutes ago sizzles out, the edges of it dulling to a point that I almost feel as though I can manage my emotions.
A quietness overtakes my mind as I continue to observe my surroundings. I saw them when I stumbled into the room, but I was still pretty out of it. Still trapped in my mind and its mental warfare.
I say those two words on repeat, making them my mantra for the rest of the night. For the rest of my life.
I’m safe.
I’m safe.
I’m safe.
“Tell me what room you’re in,” Dawson says once I’ve had enough time for those words to sink in.
“I’m in my bathroom. There’s a toilet, a sink, and a bathtub. There’s a mirror and lights and…” I dispel a big breath, “there’s no water.”
Thank fucking god.
Dawson’s voice is scratchy, riddled with emotion and pride. “I knew you could do it.”
Those butterflies swarm my stomach more, pitching in that way that makes it dip when you kiss someone for the very first time.
I didn’t know it was possible—to flip so quickly from one extreme to another, but my body switches gears, moving farther away from hysteria and closer to a curious serenity.
It isn’t lost on me how Dawson’s affirmations are the ones that make my heartbeats stutter. Or that he’s the one reassuring and comforting me instead of my fiancé.
“Dr. Cole?”
I know he told me to call him by his first name, but there are times—like this one—when calling him by his title feels more fitting.
“Yes, Miss Prescott?”
It isn’t lost on me how he mirrors the action. “Thank you,” I murmur, realizing now that I’m not panicking, I should probably hang up. Being on the phone with him any longer isn’t going to fall under our doctor-patient arrangement.
Then again, I don’t think these feelings I’m starting to feel do, either.