Page 118 of The Design of Goodbye
“That maybe I’ll see her soon.” I felt drained, even though we’d been in the store less than ten minutes. “Or at least find out where she is.”
“Is that what you want?” he asked.
Until now, it hadn’t been. But the dress changed everything. “I think so.”
“Then, I hope you do. I really want that for you.” He let silence fall between us, giving me time to process what’d happened. After we’d been almost pushed into the street from multiple groups of excited shoppers, he finally asked, “Did you still want to go to the fabric store? Or we can keep standing here. I don’t mind.”
I didn’t feel like shopping for fabric anymore. I had to do something to keep my mind off what’d happened, though.
“We’re going shopping,” I said. “I’m being silly.”
“You’re not,” he said. “That was intense.”
“Yeah.” I grabbed his hand. “But buying fabric will help.”
Not in any rush, we took our time, frequently stopping to look at the Christmas displays in shop windows. After we crossed an intersection, I noticed a post office tucked around the corner, hidden amongst all the shops. It reminded me of the keys my dad had asked me to mail to Mr. Sanderson last week, still buried at the bottom of my purse. My grip on Liam’s hand broke as I veered to the left.
“I need to drop something off at the post office,” I said. “It shouldn’t take long.” I made it all the way to the front of the post office, even had one of the doors half open, when I realized he hadn’t followed me. “Hurry up.”
“No.”
His tone was so unlike him. I let the door close. “Why don’t—”
“It’s not safe.” He stepped forward but jolted back, like he’d hit a force field. “Don’t go in there!”
“Why not?” I asked. “What’s going on?”
“Come back here!” He wrapped his arms around himself and backed up, increasing the distance between us.
“I’m coming,” I said, sensing his impending panic attack and trying to stay calm. “Wait for me.” He didn’t. Instead, he continued to stumble toward the busy street. “Liam, stop!”
I started running, but he’d already been close to the edge of the sidewalk and tripped off the curb and into the street right before I reached him. A horn blared, and I screamed as a car narrowly avoided hitting him.
I gripped his jacket and pulled him onto the sidewalk. “You’re okay,” I said as he gripped his stomach and choked on gasping breaths. “You’re—”
He bent over and threw up in some bushes before falling to his knees.
I kneeled next to him, rubbed his back, and felt his tremors. “It’s okay,” I said, unable to control the wavering in my voice. “I’m not going in.”
Palms pressed to his temples, he rocked back and forth. I found his wrist, but he didn’t react. Nothing worked. Not my touch, not my words.
Why wasn’t it working?
No one helped. No one stopped to check if Liam was okay. No one said a word as they walked by and stared at a terrified girl and a panicked boy.
It felt like hours passed before he finally came back to me.
* * *
“You want anything to eat with these?” I asked, handing Liam some water and two pills.
He shook his head. He’d only said a few words since his panic attack. On the way home, he’d slept, and as soon as we’d arrived back home, he’d showered, brushed his teeth, and put on new clothes. Now, he was sitting at my kitchen table, distant and defeated.
“I don’t think you should work tonight,” I said. “Call Gary’s and say you have food poisoning or something. We can watch a movie. Or sleep. Whatever—”
“I can’t.”
I scooted my chair so I was right next to him. “I’m worried about you.”
