Page 77 of Tripped Up

Her eyes narrow with concern as she studies me.

“I’m fine,” I repeat, because what I want to ask instead is what makes me so unlovable, and that’s not a question I want the answer to.

I mean, I do. But not really. I’m not ready to hear it. To have confirmation of all the ways I’m a failure and a fuckup. That she’s only biding her time until she finds someone better and moves on.

Fuck. I rub at my chest, at the sharp, stinging sensation deep behind my pecs. It’s inside of me, not surface level. The discomfort is wedged in deep.

“Wyatt, you don’t look so good,” she whispers. “Do you want some water?”

Grabbing blindly for the glass, I succeed only in knocking it over. The water spills onto my plate, flooding the table.

“Fuck.” I dot at the mess with my napkin, but the water is spreading like a tidal wave, dumping directly onto my lap. I let out a yelp at the ice-cold rush directly over my junk.

Elsy says my name again, but it sounds far away, like she’s speaking through a megaphone. No, her voice isn’t amplified. A funnel? What’s that word called?

A tunnel! It’s like she’s standing at one end of a tunnel, and there’s darkness all around, and a spotlight is shining directly on me, blinding me. My ears feel plugged up, like I’m on an airplane, and my stomach swoops from the turbulence.

“Wyatt,” Elsy says firmly. My eyes snap to hers, but I can’t focus on her face. My gaze slips off, darting around the room. What the hell is happening?

I’m having a panic attack.

It’s been a long time since the last time it’s happened. They’re usually isolated to hockey and I have tricks to calm down. Somehow, I don’t think smelling salts will help this one. I try to focus on my breathing, on my heart beating in my chest, on the physical sensations like my clothes touching my skin or the sounds I hear.

But when I try to breathe, my throat feels like it’s being constricted. Oh, wait, that’s my tie. I pull at the knot, loosening it, but it still doesn’t help that panicky feeling spreading through my veins.

Elsy sets her hand on my cheek. “Wyatt,” she says, more softly now. “You’re okay.”

Grabbing her wrist, I hold on for dear life, focusing on the simple contact.

“I’m okay.” My words come out in a ragged breath.

“You’re going to be okay,” she repeats. “Say it.”

“I’m going to be okay.” My voice sounds hollow, almost far away.

“Breathe,” she coos. “Take one breath in.”

I do as she says, holding it, then exhaling slowly.

“Good. Again.”

Following her instructions, I keep hold of her wrist, my fingers over her pulse point. It flutters beneath my fingertips, her heartbeat steady and even, and that helps me to concentrate on my breathing.

Slowly, surely, I come back to myself. The shocking cold over my lap punches me in the nuts, making my balls shrivel up all over again.

“How are you doing?” Elsy asks, her tone soothing me even more. I don’t see any shame or disappointment in her eyes, only pure concern. “That looked like a bad one.”

“It wasn’t fun.” I gulp in air. “I’m sorry. I⁠—”

She shakes her head. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. You did nothing wrong.”

I frown. “But⁠—”

She strokes her thumb over my cheek. “It happens. You can’t control it.”

Awareness crashes into me. Shame creeps over me as I realize Mitchell and Henry have witnessed my epic meltdown.

But there’s no judgment on either of their faces.