Page 214 of You've Got Hate Mail
He moves so quickly, ducking and then tossing the guy over his shoulder and sending him sprawling onto the floor between two tables, that I almost don’t believe it actually happened.
“Jesus Christ, am I gonna have to get my taser?” the woman says.
“Up to them,” Heath says, hooking a thumb at the guy on the floor and his friend, who’s trying to drag Cowboy Hat to his feet.
Heath looks back at me, and the look on his face—half shame, half rage—my breath leaves me again.
You okay?is the silent question.
I swipe my cheeks and nod.
Cowboy Hat gets to his feet and hustles after his friend, both of them leaving the bar.
They’re going to post pictures of me.
They’re going to tell the world they saw me here.
My anonymity—my safe place—it’s gone.
All of the shame, the fear, the embarrassment—it’s all back.
Like it never left.
Like I haven’t dealt with it at all.
What if I’ve ruined the wedding?
What if people figure out where I’m living?
What if I’ve just screwed over the winery too?
“Cricket.” Heath’s suddenly kneeling at the edge of my bench. “Breathe, baby. Look at me. Breathe.”
Breathe.
I don’t know how to breathe.
“Right here, Cricket. Look right here.” Heath points to his eyes.
I stare into them, my fingers tingling, dots dancing in my vision.
“Am I dying?” I gasp.
“No, angel, you’re panicking. It’s okay. You’re okay. I’m here. Nothing bad’s happening. I’ve got you, okay?”
He does.
He has me.
He has one arm around my waist, and he’s breathing in and out slowly, and it’s impossible to not breathe in and out with him.
One inhale.
Stare into Heath’s eyes.
One exhale.
Stare into Heath’s eyes.
