TW// Panic Attack

        I HIT THE side of my radio, trying and failing to change the station from the news to something more desirable. I lean back against the headrest, finally giving up and just listening to some cheesy announcer guy talking animatedly about some hero that saved an old lady from being hit by a car.

        The warm wind blows through my window, offering me some relief from the late May heat of Malibu. "Come on," I whisper to no one in particular, staring at the unmoving cars on the freeway. I was nearly ready to bash my face on the wheel when my phone rings, the sound loud and shrill.

        I fumble around the car aimlessly, looking for the device that was sending off the high-pitched sound that was currently making me lose my mind. I finally find it between the cracks of the seats and pull it out, pressing accept before even looking at the caller ID.

        "Yes?" I breathe out rudely. I didn't usually answer calls like this but the traffic and the heat and the stupid radio had tested my patience for the day. "What do you want?"

        The person on the phone clears their throat and I realize this wasn't just Oba or Robyn. "Hello. Is this Braylen Adams? My name is Jennifer Caruthers. I'm calling from SAO."

         "SAO?" I repeat, finally finding a break in traffic. I begin driving again, prepared to hang up on the woman. Sounded like a scam to me and I was not in the mood to get my credit card stolen.

         "Yes. Suicide Awareness Organization. We're based in California, San Fransisco to be exact. We read your article about your boyfriend, Sebastian Grey. It was quite moving. Your professor sent it in. His name was Mr..."

        "Peterson. Yeah, I know." My fingers were practically translucent as I gripped the steering wheel. "Thanks for reading, I guess. Have a nice day."

I make a move to end the call when the woman makes a noise. "No, no. I think you're misunderstanding me. I'm not only calling to sing your praises; I'm sure you've had lots of that. Like I said, your storytelling was impeccable. Truly, amazing work for an eighteen-year-old."

"I'm nineteen," I retort. "So what did you want, then?"

Jennifer clears her throat again. "There's going to be a convention, sometime in late August. It'd be an honor if you'd come and share Sebastian's story with everyone. I think it'd be impactful and we'd love to get to know yours and Sebastian's story a little bit better."

A lump lodges its way into my throat. I swallow it back with as much strength as I can, staring out at the road. "I—I don't think that's going to be possible. I have, um, loads to do this summer." It was a lie. I had absolutely no plans whatsoever. "I'm sorry. Is there someone else that can do it?"

"I suppose, but we really hoped that you'd speak. Your article...it was astounding, Mr. Adams. Truly," Jennifer says, sounding wistful. "How about this? You give me a call if you change your mind, alright? We'd be happy to have you."

I nod even though she can't see me. "Yeah, of course. Um, thanks."

I hang up the phone before she can even utter a goodbye, tossing it in the backseat. Don't think, don't think, don't think. It was no use. My hands were already shaking on the wheel and I could feel sweat pooling at the back of my neck. "Jesus Christ, Braylen," I whisper, voice cracking. "Count the blue cars. Count the blue cars."

One. A blue Subaru. Two. Toyota. Three. Prius and a girl checking her makeup in the mirror. Four. Another Subaru. An old man with glasses and a blazer. Wasn't he steaming in that?

I continue on until I can't find any more blue cars. The panic falls off of me in waves until I can finally sink into my seat, letting out a breath. "You're okay," I mutter. "You're okay."

"You're okay, Mr. Adams. You're okay."

My eyes snap open and suddenly, the blinding ray of sun shooting through my car window was gone and replaced with the dimness of Dr. Fritz's room, any and all sunlight effectively blocked out by the dark blue curtains. Dr. Fritz herself remains perched on her desk, watching me curiously before grabbing her pen and scribbling something down in her notebook. That damn notebook. Full of mine and every other one of her patient's problems.

She finishes writing down her notes before finally looking up at me. "If continuing with your story is too much for you—"

"No," I get out, swiping a hand across my nose. "No, no. I'm fine. Just need a second to...to..."

Dr. Fritz hands me a tissue and I wipe tears I couldn't remember ever falling with it begrudgingly. "Take your time," she says calmly. That's how Fritz said everything. With so little emotion I wondered if she was a robot or just an Aries. "I know you said that at Berkeley you were able to complete your work with little to no emotional drawbacks. Do you think your return to Malibu may be triggering the frequency of your panic attacks?"

I ball the tissue up in my fist and stare at Dr. Fritz's dark curly hair, counting the tiny spirals. "Don't know. Maybe."

"Hmm," she hums before writing something else down in her notebook. "And how long have you been home?"

I sniff. "A week and a half."

"And you've had how many of these attacks?"

I think back. There was the one I'd nearly had in the car ride over, the full-fledged one I'd had in my shower last Wednesday, another close one at the grocery store, and one this morning. "I guess three. If you count the almosts."

"The almosts?" Fritz repeats as her brows etch.

"Yeah," I mutter. "I had two actual ones and two almosts. You know, the ones I was able to stop before they went too far. Like the one I had in the car ride coming home. So since two halves make a whole, then three."

Fritz writes that down.

"And our method for cooldowns has been working? Identifying an object and a color and using it as your anchor?"

I shrug. "Sometimes."

Fritz frowns again. "What do you mean, sometimes?"

"I mean, if I'm not too far gone into the attack, sometimes your method works." She still looks at me patiently and so I continue. "It's like, I don't know. Something takes over me with the attacks, like a virus on a computer. I only have so much time before my brain shuts down and the only option I have is to ride it out. So yes, the method works but only if I make it in enough time."

         I can feel the blood boil beneath my skin as Fritz writes something down. Again. "How did you feel when you received the phone call from the woman with the Suicide Awareness Organization?"

        I gnaw on my bottom lip. "I don't know."

        I half expect Fritz to finally show an ounce of frustration but she only leans forward, her face as placid as ever. "Mr. Adams, the best way we can avoid your panic attacks, even your 'almosts,' is by identifying what triggers them. How did you feel?"

        I curl my fingers into my fists on my thigh, sighing. "Sad. Upset. Pissed."

        scribble. scribble.

        "What part of the conversation upset you, specifically?"

        I shrug again. Fritz stares at me and I realize that's not good enough. "I don't know, I can't pinpoint it. But I was mad about my radio and then she had to go and bring up his name—"

        "Sebastian's name, you mean?" Fritz asks. It takes all of my strength to not lean over and sock her.

        "Yes, his name."

        Fritz leans forward. "I've noticed you refrain from saying his name a lot. You even almost have a physical reaction when you hear it. It's like you shrink back at the word." I click my tongue as I nod. I wasn't surprised by this. I lived in my body all the time; did she think I didn't know? "I know you mentioned holding anger against Sebastian closely after his death. Is that anger still present?"

        "No," I mumble. "No, I'm not mad at him anymore."

        "There's no feeling of betrayal between you and Sebastian? None at all?"

        "Nope. None."

        scribble. scribble. scribble.

        "I also understand the anniversary of his passing is fast approaching. Do you have any feelings about that?" Fritz asks.

        I swallow back the lump in my throat. "They're holding a ceremony for him, the people at the Academy. A beach thing."

        "Will you be attending?"

        "Maybe," I answer. "If my friends go."

        Dr. Fritz hums before clicking her tongue. "You never answered my question."

       "I just said I might go."

        "Not that one, Mr. Adams. What are your feelings about the ceremony?" my therapist asks.

        Red hot pain shoots through my palms. I'd dug my fingers in too deep. I relax my fingers and rub my palms on my jeans before answering. "I don't know. None, I suppose."
       
        Fritz picks up her pen and this time I can't hold back my annoyance. "Stop writing down everything I say!" I shout.

         At my words, she sets the pen and pad onto her desk and folds her hands over her lap instead. "I think we can be done for the day, Mr. Adams." I glance at the orange-hued clock on her desk. She was right. Our hour was almost up. "Continue practicing the object/color method. And if you see no change, let me know during our next session."

         "When will that be?" I ask, raising my eyebrows.

        Fritz smiles. "Let's try for next Sunday, all right?"

        Next Sunday. That was nearly a week from today. I must really be screwed up if she needs to see me again so soon. "Yeah. See you then."

        I grab my phone and car keys before practically sprinting to the door, wanting to get out of the claustrophobic room and as far away from her questions as possible.

        I'd taken some therapy sessions last summer, thanks to Oba of course. Now that I was back in Malibu for the break she'd been keen on me starting back up again. Especially after she found me keeled over in the shower the other day. Apparently, I'd been that way for over an hour and thirty minutes and the water had run ice cold. I couldn't even feel it. Anyways, that wasn't a good look for my case of complete sanity.

        The truth is, most of the time I didn't feel messed up. If I shut my eyes and imagined that Sebastian wasn't dead, imagined that he was just off in Vancouver or the Bahamas for the holiday, I could get through my days. It was the nights, the quiet, the silence that was killing me. And I couldn't figure out how to stop my mind from clawing at the same wounds I'd been nursing for almost a year.

         Berkeley had been good for me. I'd had the whole college experience and it kind of helped take my mind off of everything. But the distraction had been temporary, as they always are. And coming home again did nothing but bring back all that pain that I'd tried so hard to forget about.

        I push through the revolving doors of the building, stepping out eagerly into the cool air of Malibu. The sun was set already but there was still a bit of light staining the sky and causing it to hold onto its blue right before slipping into complete darkness. I stare up at the sky before turning my head over to the left, drawn to that side specifically due to some sort of movement out the corner of my eye.

        There was a boy, though man may be more accurate, wearing black jeans and a deep leather jacket. He had a buzzcut and tattoos peeking out behind his jacket, but that's not what caught my eye. He looked like someone I knew.

         And then his eyes flash up to mine and everything comes flooding back to me.

        Roman.

        The young bartender who, unknowingly, had played a big part in my acceptance journey regarding my sexuality. I hadn't seen him since that night I'd gotten plastered so I didn't have to think about how Sebastian was—

         Dying. So I didn't have to think about him dying.

        No, no, no. Not right now.

        A cold sweat breaks on the back of my neck and I fumble with my keys in an attempt to get the hell out of the parking lot before I had another panic attack. The keys drop between my shaking fingers and I mumble curse words under my breath, bending down to pick them up. As I do, I see the shine of black combat boots and lift my eyes up tentatively.

         Damn it.

        "Braylen?" Roman asks, smiling brightly at me with his too-perfect teeth and too kind brown eyes. "Is that really you?"

        I go to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear before realizing it wasn't long enough to do that anymore. My hand falls limp at my side. "Mhm," I breathe out, digging my nails into my skin once again. "It's m-me."

        Roman smiles widely, pulling me into a hug that I can't feel because all I can hear is the sound of my heart pounding underneath my skin. When he pulls away, he stares at me. "You look different. Your hair is almost as short as mine now." He laughs. I try to too, but the sound doesn't make it past my lips.

        "I haven't seen you at the bar lately. I'm guessing you graduated, then?" Roman continues. My chest was caving in. "What school did you end up going to for college?"

        I swallow hard and wipe my sweaty hands against the back of my jeans. "B-Berkeley."

        "Hey, that's a great school. How's your boyfriend? Sebastian, right? Did you two ever work things out?" Roman asks, his big eyes curious. I shake my head once, looking around at the empty parking lot. "Are you okay?"

         I shake my head again, more vigorously this time. I move my hands around as if that'll help me find the words to speak as anxiety claws up my throat and swims through my blood. "I-I get...panic at—"

        "Hey, hey, hey," Roman murmurs, grabbing me by my elbow and leading me to the curb. "It's okay, just breathe." He sits me down on it, squatting down next to me and placing his hands on my knees.

        I sniff as tears stream down my face. "I-I need to count the c-cars."

        "Okay. Okay, let's count the blue ones, alright?" Roman agrees easily and we stare out at the parking lot. "There's a Honda Civic. A friend of mine used to have one of those. One day he got so drunk he spewed his guts on the car seats. We spent the whole weekend trying to clean it up. My clothes smelled like vomit for days."

        A harsh laugh leaves my lips. My breath catches at the sound and I lean forward onto my knees, trying to regulate my breathing. I lift my head just a bit and try to count the blue cars but I can't make any out from behind my tears. "I can't see any cars," I whisper, the words fast and hardly intelligible.

"Hey, that's okay," Roman responds. "You're breathing better. Just stay calm, listen to my voice, okay? Do you want me to keep talking?"

I nod once, lacing my fingers together and placing them behind my neck. "Please."

"Okay. So, my buddy, his name was Nova, by the way, ended up just having to get a whole new car. I mean, the other one was fine besides that. Well, the mufflers sucked and the car took forever to start up but other than that it was a solid car," Roman continues. "We drove it all the way to Vegas one weekend. Nova, Jeremy, Eden, and I. They were my best friends."

I was coherent enough to keep up with the conversation. "Where are they now?" I whisper, my voice cracking.

"Uh, well, Nova and I are still kind of close. Um, Jeremy passed away maybe two years ago. Rare kind of cancer. Eden and I still are close but it's not like before. Just a part of life, I guess."

I swallow hard. "He passed away, too. My boyfriend."

Roman's eyes snap up to mine. "He was sick?"

I shake my head and wipe my face with the back of my hand. "He killed himself last June. Why do you think I'm in a therapy center parking lot?"

Roman nods softly at me. "I'm sorry. I know you loved him."

"I'm sorry, too. For Jeremy."

Roman shrugs. "It's all good. You may not believe me, but time really does heal almost everything."

I stare up at him. "What are you doing here, then?"

Roman runs a hand over his buzzcut, almost instinctively. "I just show up every once in a while. Work through some childhood trauma. Listen, I've had attacks like that before and I don't think you should drive home alone. I can give you a ride on my motorcycle or—"

"Hell no," I hiss. "I am not getting on a motorcycle in this lifetime. Besides, I can't just leave my car. I'll be fine, I'm not too far from here."

Roman nods. "Perfect. I'll tail you."

I look up at him ready to argue but by then he's flashing me another megawatt smile. It distracts me for a moment and in a daze, I mumble the words. "Okay. Fine." I realize what I'd agreed to far too late and groan.

"Great. Let's go."

And then he's looping his hands through mine and lifting me off of the now cold curb.

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hey everyone! i'm so happy to be back with another story, especially following braylen and roman who i ADORE. i hope you love this book as much as i do. see you on friday for the second update!

happy valentine's day to the lovers <3!