Chapter Seven Eleanor #4
We’re stuck in stop-and-go traffic, and the stagnant air carries a smell of exhaust that only makes it harder to breathe.
We turn and traffic lets up, finally affording more of a breeze through the window.
But by the time we pull up to the curb in front of the bar, I’m breathing through my mouth and have the strap of my bag in a choke hold.
I scramble out of the back seat as quickly as possible while Adam thanks the driver.
Instead of going inside the bar, which likely smells like stale beer and liquor, I press my back against the brick wall of the building.
My hands shake as I paw through my purse for my emergency stash of antiemetics.
I never go on a trip without Zofran. Especially not one involving a plane ride.
I know I packed some. Except I have looked in every single interior pocket of this fucking bag, and it isn’t here.
I find hand sanitizer and three different lip balms and a Tide To Go stick and a tampon, but not the one thing I goddamn need.
I’m practically dumping the entire contents of my bag out onto the concrete sidewalk when I sense Adam hovering over me.
“Uh… everything okay?”
“I’m fine,” I insist. I haven’t thrown up in years. I have white-knuckled my way through the flu and two separate stomach bugs. A hangover and a social media post will not be my undoing. I am fine.
My breath is coming faster—too fast—and my eyes are starting to burn with the press of tears, but finally I find the Zofran packet, inexplicably tucked inside my sunglasses case.
I hurry to punch out a tab and stick it under my tongue.
I’m crouched on the sidewalk, palms over my closed eyes as I swish my tongue back and forth and wait for it to dissolve.
When I open my eyes again, Adam is right there. Crouched beside me with his hands clasped between his spread knees and this expression on his face like he’s a little afraid to approach me.
Which makes sense, because I probably resemble a feral raccoon. I’m still too keyed up to even feel embarrassed about that, though I suspect the humiliation will come later, once the anxiety recedes. For now, I focus on evening out my breath.
“Do you want me to get you some water?” Adam asks in a gentle voice. “Or call someone? My mom is a nurse, actually; she usually knows what to—”
“No, just. Shut up.” I squeeze my eyes shut.
The only person I want to talk to right now is Iris.
She always knows exactly what to say to bring me down from a panic attack, and I try to summon her voice in my head, pretend she’s here with me.
I could call her, and given how much she’s been texting today, she’d probably pick up.
But then I’d have to explain why I’m having a panic attack in the middle of a Las Vegas sidewalk, and as soon as I knock down one domino, the rest will fall, and I’ll have to tell her not only about Adam but about work and bills, and then she’ll feel like shit for borrowing money even though it was my idea to give it to her.
Adam shifts. He’s quiet for all of ten seconds before he says, “So, should I go?”
“No!” I shout, the idea of being left alone abhorrent to me right now.
“Okay,” he says, sounding a bit panicked himself. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Stay there. Don’t talk.”
Adam does exactly that, sitting down on the dirty sidewalk next to me. He leaves a couple of inches of space between us, careful not to touch me, but close enough that even with my eyes closed I can feel his presence.
My hands are still trembling when I grab my earbuds and phone, pulling up my calming playlist and hitting play on my safe song I always listen to during attacks.
The second time through, I’m able to breathe a bit deeper again.
I’m stable enough that when Adam speaks—offering again to get me a glass of ice water from inside the bar—I nod.
His hotel slippers shuffle back into view before the track ends.
He crouches in front of me and carefully passes over the glass.
I take a few sips, the cold condensation against my palms distracting me enough I manage to even out my breathing.
I catch an ice cube between my teeth and suck on it, focusing on that sensation and nothing else.
I crunch the melting ice between my back molars and pull out one earbud. “I’m okay now,” I tell him. “You can go inside.”
He hesitates, his eyes tightening in the corners, like he still expects me to pass out or something.
“I’ll be right there,” I say before he has a chance to ask if I’m sure. “I’m just going to call the resort and get ahold of that social media manager.”
My tone leaves no room for arguing, and so Adam nods once and stands up. His hands slip into the pockets of his shorts. “All right. See you inside, then.”
Once I’m alone, I tip my head back against the brick facade and blow out another long breath. I’m exhausted, craving a nap the way I always do after an episode like this. The only upside is that I’m too worn out to care that Adam keeps seeing me at my worst.
In fact, I realize it doesn’t bother me as much as I’d expect, that Adam was here to witness my panic attack.
Maybe it’s the fact that we got into this mess together, or the fact that he’s still wearing those horrendous slippers.
But in this moment, more than anything else, I’m grateful he was here.