She Dims the Stars

Her head is tilted in thought. “I don’t think there’s anything short of telling Elliot that you’re a murderer that would make him walk away from you. Even then, I’d bet he would try to find evidence against it. Have you seen the way he looks at you?”

“No,” I lie and cross my legs as the memory of his touch from earlier in the day resurfaces.

“Then maybe you should open your eyes a little more,” she says quietly and takes a sip of her drink before the pizza we ordered is placed on the table.

Elliot is sitting in the back of the car again, laptop plugged in as he tries to work on his game. A familiar tug of responsibility settles in my gut, and I chastise myself for possibly costing him this opportunity.

“Is there anything I can do to help you with this?” I ask, peering around to look at his screen.

A webpage disappears, and his work comes back up quickly with a click of his fingers. He blinks a few times and smiles at me with a shake of his head. “I’m good. It’s boring.”

“What were you looking at?” I ask, climbing into the back of the car next to him.

“Stuff for the project. How To’s and things like that. I don’t have my degree yet, you know. I’m still a novice.”

“A How To on what?” I don’t think Elliot’s lied to me before, and now I know he’s very bad at it.

“How to …” he stalls, and I can almost see his brain firing all cylinders to try and come up with something, “make realistic sand.”

“Bullshit. I’ve seen your realistic sand. What were you looking at? Is it porn or something? Let me see!” I’m practically crawling over him to get to the laptop and switch screens so I can see what he’s trying so desperately to hide from me.

“Seriously, it’s nothing! Come on, Audrey, don’t mess with the laptop …”

He doesn’t fight hard, though, and I’m too fast. In an instant I wish I hadn’t asked.

SIX TYPES OF ANXIETY ATTACKS

My eyes scan the article and I can feel my throat tightening.

Rage and irritability

Obsessive behavior

Stuttering

Silence

Zoning out

Hyperventilating/rocking back and forth

The pressure on my chest is growing heavier with each second, and I’m trying to fight it off, but I know when it’s too late. This is one of those times.

“You could have asked,” I whisper before I scramble to get out of the car and walk as fast as I can to the tent. I know exactly where I’m going and what I’m getting, and as soon as I have it, I am back out and into the night, walking off into the woods. I need a tree. I need a safe space. A place away from anyone and everyone else where it can happen, and I can let it overtake me until it’s over and then I can move on.

The Klonopin won’t kick in immediately, but at least I have that hope to hold onto as I stumble into the woods and away from the voices of the people I know. I’m walking blindly into the darkness, trying to get away from any and all light that isn’t the moon, so I can’t be seen. The only sounds around me are the cicadas, the water from the lake to my left, and my own erratic breathing.

It’s getting harder to see, because the tears are building and blinding me, and my throat is so constricted I can hardly get a full breath in through my mouth. But if I try to breathe through my nose, I feel like I’m choking. There’s a huge tree right in front of me, and I lean against it, my arms straight and legs extended, face pointed down at the ground as I try to breathe just one full breath.

But it’s not coming.

The sounds coming out of my mouth would make any passerby believe I was having an asthma attack and needing an inhaler. The shaking in my hands and arms give way to numbness in my digits, and my face begins to tingle, lips losing feeling while I gasp for a single lungful of oxygen.

The world is collapsing around me, and I am alive and awake to see it all happening, but there’s nothing I can do about it. Tears flow faster, and my heart beats wildly until I slide to my knees and press my face between them and begin to count silently, hoping that maybe by the time I reach ten I’ll have some control.

I reach three hundred and feel a warm hand on my back. I reach three hundred and fifty when I hear September’s voice. I reach four hundred when Cline picks me up and carries me back to the tent.

I lose count when Elliot wraps his body around mine in the sleeping bag and whispers that he’s sorry while pushing my sweaty hair from my forehead.

His touch is what allows that first real burst of air into my lungs, and I pull it in with such force I almost choke on it, wheezing and gasping as I inhale and cry through the exhale. But he holds me through it until the pain in my chest begins to loosen. Until the tightness in my throat lessens, and I can swallow and speak. Until the vice around my head unclenches and the fuzzy gray patterns behind my eyelids give way to actual shapes again.