Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 63758 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63758 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
She struggles to inhale for a few moments longer, and then some of the fight drops away, and her arm loosens.
“Hey,” I say softly.
She whimpers.
I’ve been drawn to this girl since she first started coming to see the band. She’s gorgeous but in the most understated way–almost like she’s hiding. Like she doesn’t want anyone to see her. But then she lights up when I talk to her, so I figure maybe she’s just shy.
Now I think I understand it better. She has social anxiety.
Which is totally cool. There is no one less daunted by mental health issues than I am.
“I love your new hairstyle.” With our hands still joined, I reach up and brush a lock of hair from her brown eyes.
She showed up tonight with copper highlights in her brown hair and her previously long hair cut into a long shaggy bob that frames her heart-shaped face. She's also wearing make-up tonight–another first. Black eyeliner sweeps under her eyes and out toward the outer edges of her brows in a dramatic nod to punk. The upper and lower lids are rimmed and shadowed with gold, copper and bronze that catch the light and make the gold flecks in her eyes pop. She’s wearing an open flannel shirt over a pale pink tank top that molds to her breasts.
I purposely don't address the panic attack. I'm not going to ask her what's wrong or if she's okay. I know none of those things will help her move past this moment. She's probably already embarrassed enough that someone has seen her.
“You do?” she chokes out. I hear the relief in her voice that we're not talking about the tears.
“Yeah,” I say. “You look great.”
She takes her fingers back and wraps her arms around her waist. I push off the wall to face her and adjust the lapels of her black leather jacket, zipping it up because she looks cold. I guess even if you’re from Russia, Chicago is too damn cold in February to stand outside for long.
“Do you want a hit?” I ask. I have another blunt in my pocket that I could light up. As soon as I offer, I wish I hadn’t.
It feels wrong to offer her weed even though I know marijuana is useful for anxiety. I feel like a reprobate. I have no idea how she feels about partying or drugs or even alcohol for that matter. I’ve never seen her drink anything but a bottle of water.
Besides, I don't want her to go down that rabbit hole if she’s not already in it. I know so many people who've wasted entirely too much of their lives getting stoned–myself included. Nadia seems too fresh and bright for that. She seems pure.
“What?” She looks me in the eyes for the first time since I arrived.
“Never mind,” I say. “It was a dumb idea. I have a better one.” I catch her hand again and tug her toward the van the band uses to transport our instruments and equipment.
She hesitates, dragging her feet a bit, so I stop to wait. “Are you scared of me?” I am a guy she barely knows trying to pull her to his car in a back alley. It makes sense she’d be reluctant to follow.
But she shakes her head, and the resistance leaves. I pull her to the back of the van where I open the doors. After I crawl inside, I hold my hand out for hers. Her brows go down, but she takes my proffered palm and climbs in. “What are we doing?”
I pull the doors shut and sit cross-legged on the carpeted floor of the van. “It's warmer in here.”
She gets comfortable, leaning her back against the sidewall of the van. “Won't your bandmates miss you? I mean, don't you have to go play?”
I shrug. “I'll go back in a minute. For now, it's nice to be away from the crowd. Don't you think?”
Probably understanding that I'm helping her, she tips her head back against the side of the van and lets out a soft sob. A tear streaks down her face.
I keep my mouth shut. This is the art of being with someone in a meltdown. You match their energy. Share the burden. Normalize the moment.
Even though she’s crying again, I sense the panic ebb. The tears are the letdown that comes afterward.
“I like my hair, too.” Her Russian accent is sexy–I could listen to her all night. “I felt so strong tonight.” She swipes at the tears with the back of her hand. “And I want to go to a party with you.” When I tilt my head in puzzlement, her eyes widen like she wishes she could take the words back. “I mean–you invited me last month, and I wanted to go, but crowds make me hyperventilate. So I've been trying to work on it.”