Page 125 of The Design of Goodbye
He answered with a quiet but frustrated, “Panic attack.”
In my surprise, my hold on Thimble loosened, and he escaped. Coldness took his place. “Another one?”
“Yeah.” He put his hands in his pockets. “I’ve had one every day since Saturday.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want you to know.” He sat down at my desk.
“Why not?”
“I don’t like—” He paused a long time before admitting, “Because it’s embarrassing.”
I should’ve told him he shouldn’t be embarrassed, but instead, it occurred to me: how muchdidn’the tell me? How well did Ireallyknow him?
How much was he hiding from me?
“They’re getting worse,” he continued. “I’ve never had this many in a row before.” He took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes.
He must’ve told me this for a reason, but I couldn’t provide him with the comfort he needed tonight. Not when I was so angry—at my mom, at myself, and, apparently, at him.
Why did he have panic attacks? Why didn’t he like post offices? Why did he miss the end of junior year? Why wouldn’t he tell me anything?
Why dideveryonehave so many secrets?
“If I knew why you had panic attacks,” I started, “I could help you. But I don’t, so I can’t.”
“Are you okay?” he asked.
I almost saidSplendid, but that would’ve been a lie, so I didn’t respond.
“Do you want me to be here?” He picked up a paperclip and nervously started bending the weak metal.
“Yes. No. I don’t know. I’m...something happened today, and I’m in a bad mood.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.
I shook my head. “I—”
“You don’t need to explain yourself.” He stood, pocketing the paperclip and looking more uncomfortable in my room than he ever had. “I’m going to leave. I understand if you need alone time. You need to tell me when you need it.”
I sat up. “Where will you go?”
He shrugged. “I’ll be fine.”
“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said. “Maybe.”
“Are you mad?”
“Of course I’m mad,” I said, every word clipped. I’d spent my whole life trying to impress a mom who hadn’t wanted me. I was dating a boy who had a tragic past and wouldn’t talk to me.
“Did I...”he trailed off, brows furrowing. “Did I do something?”
Anger bubbled up and filled my words. “It’s what youwon’tdo.”
“What won’t I do?” he asked, glancing around the room, like it would give him answers.
“You won’t tell me why you have panic attacks. I want to know.”
