Page 46 of Shy Girls Can't Date Rockstars
I can’t breathe.
I grip the edge of the mahogany table to keep from falling out of my chair. But it doesn’t help because suddenly I’m not in Miranda’s library anymore. Can’t breathe. I’m in the passenger seat of my parents’ catering van, watching storm clouds gather ahead of us on the mountain road.
“I should have gone with them,” I whisper to the storm outside.
Ryder puts his phone down, lowering himself to view me. “Gone with who?”
Oh, lord, I can’t breathe.
“Alice, are you okay?”
“My parents.” The words come out in a rush, like confessing to a crime. “I was supposed to be in the car with them that night. I always helped with catering events, but I stayed home sick. I faked being sick because I didn’t want to go.”
Thunder crashes overhead, and I double over in my chair, pressing my hands to my chest where it feels like my ribs are splintering.
“If I hadn’t put on a show to get out of it, they would’ve left earlier. Dad would have taken the main highway instead of the mountain shortcut. If I was there, maybe I could have done something.”
“Alice.” Ryder’s voice is different now, gentler somehow. “Look at me.”
I try to lift my head, but the movement makes the room spin worse. Every sound distorts like I’m underwater. Air can’t get into my lungs.
“I was supposed to be there,” I gasp. “I was supposed to die with them.”
“You were not.” His words are firm and definitive. “Don’t you ever say you were supposed to die.”
I gasp for another breath, but it doesn’t do any good. My chest constricts. There’s a blockage I can’t break through.
“Alice?”
“Don’t,” I choke. “You don’t know me. You don’t know what I deserve.”
“Alice, stop.”
“You stop! You hate me.”
“I don’t…” Ryder stops himself, like he was about to say something he didn’t mean. “Are you… Are you having a panic attack?”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
“Okay. Okay, um...” His voice is unsettled. “Has this happened before?”
I swear there’s something coiled around my neck. “Mm-hmm.”
“My mom taught me something about steadying your breath. It’s four counts, right? Four counts in—hold for four—four counts out?”
Another rumble of thunder makes me flinch, and my breathing is about sixteen in, and one out.
“Geez, Alice. You’re afraid of thunder?”
My fingernails dig into my palm, biting harder than the crystal vase ever did.
How dare he! How dare he make fun of me! I’m the one who lost her parents. I’m the one forced to talk about literature with a stupid boy who couldn’t give a damn about it.
Ugh. I hate him. I hate him. I hate—
“You know what’s really weird about recording studios?”
What?
