Page 52 of The Matchmaker's Cottage

No response.

He knocked on the door lightly. “Can I come in? Are you okay?” A pause, then: “It’s Ethan.”

Still nothing.

Testing the doorknob, he realized it wasn’t locked, and he opened it with as much care as he could muster in his haste. Peering in, unsure of what he would find, he spotted her immediately.

She was sitting on the tiles, knees up, her fingers curled slightly around them in a frozen half grasp. Her face was stark and pale, though redness rose high on her cheekbones. Her jaw was tight, teeth gritted as she heaved out short, rapid breaths. Ethan could see her whole body trembling even as she pressed her back against the wooden vanity. She wasn’t looking at him, and possibly hadn’t even seen him at all or realized he was there as she rode out…whatever it was that was happening to her.

He panicked for a moment—Was it a seizure? Or some other medical condition she had that he wasn’t aware of?—and he dropped to the floor to grab her, wanting to help in some way but not knowing how.

She flinched when his hands made contact, and her eyes shot to his, her expression so fearful, he felt a painful jab in his heart. She remained stiff and still, aside from the slight tremors through her body. The only indication that she understood that he was there with her was the welling of tears in her indigo-blue eyes.

“Hey.” He rubbed a hand up and down her back in a weak attempt to soothe her. “Hey, it’s okay.” His gaze ran over her,still looking for signs of a physical injury. He could hear her teeth chattering slightly, and he looked back up at her face just as she placed her head down, resting her forehead on her knees and shaking it back and forth slightly.

Since she didn’t seem to have come to any physical harm, and he knew she had no history of epilepsy or any other medical issues, the logical conclusion to draw was that she must be having some sort of panic attack. Admittedly, he didn’t have much experience with those—aside from his own brief moments of crippling anxiety that cropped up occasionally—but it made sense by his own deduction.

Not knowing how to help, at least not properly, he chose to just sit there instead and quietly continue to rub his hand up and down with one hand while anchoring his other hand to hers. He murmured things that he hoped would be helpful—“You can get through this” and “It’s going to be okay”—while taking in deep inhales and exhales that he hoped would encourage her to mimic him.

Slowly, over an indeterminate amount of time, he could feel her begin to wilt, the tremors subsiding and her body growing lax. She seemed to sag, releasing the tension that she’d been carrying that whole time. She leaned against him heavily, and he moved his hand from her back to around her body, drawing her even closer. Turning, he pressed his lips to her head, unable to help himself, and held her tighter still.

“Sorry,” she croaked finally, her voice shaky and unused. “That”—she paused as though parsing her words—“happens sometimes,” she finished.

His heart clenched again at the thought of that happening, ever, but especially when she was alone with no one to help her through it.

“Is it…?”A panic attack?He didn’t know if he should voice the words. Something about it felt taboo, like he’d be crossing a line if she knew he could identify it.

“I don’t know,” she said with a sigh. “It’s something.” He could feel her shrug, still nestled in his embrace.

“Have you spoken to anyone about it?”I don’t want this to happen to you.

“Like who, a doctor?” She shook her head, honey-blonde ponytail tickling his nose. She must have put it up when she’d come down here, preceding whatever it was that had occurred. “No. It’s fine. I just need to get past—” She cut herself off and took in another shaky sigh. He could feel her move away from him—physically, but also initiating the emotional distance. “It’s fine.”

“It doesn’tseemfine.” He knew he shouldn’t push. He didn’t have the right. It had been years, and who knew how long she had been dealing with it—certainly when he was no longer there to help or support her—so really, it was none of his business. But damn it, this wasGem.

“It’sfine.” Her terse words cut through his inner turmoil, and he felt her push away from him even further, though they both still sat on the cold bathroom tile. “I’ll figure it out.”

“Oh, you’ll figure it out?”

The frustration came up from him, resurfacing from the ashes of his bitter anger from before, pushing aside the logical part that reminded him of his rights, or lack thereof, when it came to her. It came to the forefront of his emotions, feeling like it was going to burst from him.

“Looks like you had things pretty well figured out before I got here,” he continued, even as warning alarms went off in his head.

She shot him a look of disdain. “How would you even know? You don’t know anything about what I’m dealing with. What I’ve been through. You don’t know anything aboutme.”

The gloves were off. Normally, historically, Ethan would have conceded. Backed away. But not this time. This time, when emotions were already raw and what he had seen happen to her was enough to scare him, scare theshitout of him, in fact, he could no longer hold back or yield to her.

“I don’t knowanythingabout you, Julia? I know nothing? Come the fuck on,” he snapped instead.

She blinked at him, seeming shocked at his refusal to bow down this time, to concede the fight to her, because he’d historically been the one in the wrong. But he couldn’t do it, not this time.

“I mean, maybe I didn’t know it wasMaggie’s familywho bought the cottage from good old Graham Schaeffer.” The sarcasm dripped heavily from his words, and he took satisfaction in the way her mouth dropped and she reddened, caught in her own omission of the truth. “But I do know everything that’s ever given you an allergic reaction. I know every bone you’ve broken or muscle you’ve sprained. I could probably name the date of each of your goddamn scars. And yeah, I fucked up eight years ago, and maybe I don’t know any of the new shit that’s happened, but that doesn’t mean the old shit doesn’t count anymore, damn it.”

“Is that what it is, Ethan?” she spoke finally, her words clipped, unshed tears gathering in her eyes. “You justfucked upeight years ago, but since you can count every time I scraped my knees when I was a kid, everything can go back to being peachy keen?”

“You know that’s not—”

“No, please, tell me more about how it matterssomuch.” Despite her words, he felt secretly relieved that he could see the color coming back into her cheeks, this time from anger rather than shame. Sure, it was due to anger directed at him, but at least she was starting to seem more like herself. “Like you give ashitabout who bought the cottage off my dad. Tell me more about the history we have and how it trumps the way things turned out. Because it seems to me that what you’re trying to do is wash your hands of any sort of blame. You’re here now—for your own purposes, mind you—being all nice and reminiscing with me about the good old days without acknowledging how you—” She cut herself off and shook her head. “I don’t even know why I bother.”