by Cassie Mae
My anchor . . . shit. Why can’t I think?
Tolani’s voice comes out a little forced. “The ocean, Eric. Remember it. Come on.”
That’s right. It’s always the ocean. The sensation of weightlessness under the water. No pressure on my lungs or shoulders.
I manage a deep breath and hold it. My hand slides off the receiver as I exhale, and I hear Tolani exhale with me.
“Good?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, vision returning and heart rate settling. “You?”
“Yeah.”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to make you panic, too.”
Something shuts on his side of the phone. A door or cupboard or something. “It’s cool.” I hear a pill bottle, and my stomach knots. Shit. He’s probably taking something for it now. “What’s going on?” he asks. “Do I need to visit your twitchy ass?”
I let out a breathy laugh. “No. I think I’m good. I just . . . do you still talk with Dr. Shuman?”
“I haven’t for a while. Why?”
“’Cause I’m sitting in his office.”
“Yeah?” he says before drinking something. “Your attacks getting worse?”
“No,” I say. “Just . . . I hadn’t had one in a while, and then this morning . . . something triggered one.”
“Something . . .”
I run a hand down my face. “A girl.”
“Damn.” He laughs, and if he was here I’d beat the hell out of him. “You gotta work on that.”
“No shit.”
“Well,” he says, voice lowering a bit. “Talk it out with Doc. Get some meds. Remember the damn ocean when you feel one coming on, and call me if you need.”
“Yes, Mother.” I flinch as if he’s there, because I know he’d beat me up for that.
“All right. Let me know how it goes.”
“Thanks, man.”
I tap the phone off and put it in my pocket. The office doesn’t seem as daunting as it did when I first walked in here. I scratch my arm and twirl a loose thread on the sleeve of my scrubs and yank it off. The trash can is full of paper and tissues, and I toss the black string on top of all the white. I don’t even know what the hell I’m doing here. I feel fine now. Maybe I should’ve just called Tolani after last night . . . or this morning, whatever it was.
Running a hand over my face, I focus on the ocean so I don’t start thinking about Em’s hands and the way they moved. How incredible they felt and how . . . Shit. Breathe, damn it. I’m here. I’m trying to fix it. No one’s touching me at the moment . . . we’re good.
But it’s not good. It was Emmy. It should be okay. I wanted it.
Why the hell did I hear Ali in my head the second her hands drifted farther south?
“Eric, relax. I’m the only person who’ll ever want to touch you like this. You should like it and be grateful for it.”
The door clicks and it jolts me from my damn head. Dr. Shuman’s eyebrows rise as he looks at me, and his mouth drops open.
“Eric Matua?”
“Hey, Doc.”
He steps through the door, then closes it behind him, still gawking at me. I jam my fists in my pockets so I don’t fidget.
“Well, you’re looking good,” he says, reaching to shake my hand. I flex my fingers before I reach out to grasp his. He’s still shaking his head at me. “I hardly recognize you.”
“Uh, thanks.”
He smiles and drops my hand. “Still having a tough time taking compliments?”
“I’m working on it.”
He laughs, turning from me to his desk. His hair is thinning in the back, and damn that sucks. He’s only, like, thirty-five. If I start losing my hair that early I’m shaving it.
“So, been a while,” he says when he sits in his chair.
“Yeah, I uh . . . was living in Samoa with my uncle for a bit.”
“Welcome back to the States.”
“Thanks.”
He opens his jacket and pulls a pen out. I didn’t even see him grab his clipboard, but there it is in its usual position on his lap.
“You want to sit?” He gestures to the couch. Instantly my limbs tighten and my muscles crawl. I shake my head and pace the floor again. Dr. Shuman clears his throat. “All right, Eric. You know I won’t play the guessing game with you. So, I’ll wait till you’re ready to talk.”
I try to laugh, but it comes out garbled. This was always his method—sit there in silence till I break. And since I only have an hour, and it’s been a good three years since I last saw him, things start spewing out as I wring my hands together, run them over my head, and pace, pace, pace.
“I thought I was done with this shit. But this morning I couldn’t breathe—couldn’t think, really. She felt good and things were fine, then that damn voice popped into my head and I bolted. It was an instant panic attack, and I’m pretty sure I scared the hell out of her or something. That’s never happened with Em. She was always the person who kept things calm. Well, not calm, but it was real enough to keep my head clear. I don’t know, but I don’t want this thing with Ali to keep coming back to bite me every time I’m with a woman. I feel ruined or something, and if I can’t keep her away when I’m with my best friend, how the hell am I supposed to keep her away at all, you know?”
Dr. Shuman presses his lips together, then scratches his goatee with the back of his pen. “Sorry, Eric. I wish I could say I do know what you mean, but it’s been a few years. I may need a quick recap of which ‘she’ is which.”
This was a bad idea. I don’t want to talk anymore, but he must have a sensor that tells him when a patient is about to fly the coop, because he leans forward, holding his palm out to stop me.
“Eric, I remember Ali. You don’t have to go into that if you don’t want to.”
I nod and press the heel of my hand against my forehead. Having to retell the whole experience with my ex isn’t why I came here. I want him to help me forget it.
“I’m talking about Em . . . not that Em is in my head . . . Ali’s in my head. I just, uh, I think I want . . . ah, hell, I don’t know, but it’s not going to happen if I can’t . . . these panic attacks, what do I do about them? Should I tell Em about it? Or maybe not even bring it up. The whole thing might not even happen again with the way I reacted—”
“Eric,” he says, setting the clipboard down on the table next to him. “Sit down before you destroy the furniture.”
My brow furrows as I follow his line of sight to my fists curled around the back of the couch, fingers digging into the leather. I take a deep breath and ease off the cushion. As much as my fidgety body hates it, I force myself to lie down and stare at the ceiling.
“Take a deep breath,” he says, and I do it even though it feels like fire scorching my lungs. “Now, one thought at a time.”
“Emmy . . .” That’s the only thought in my head now.
“Is this the same Emilia from your childhood?”
I nod, closing my eyes. “She’s living with me for the summer. I was just giving her a place to stay while she was out of school. And it seemed easy at first—falling into our old friendship. I’m still dealing with how attracted I am to her, but that’s something I always had to handle. That’s not what caused the panic attack this morning.”
“When was your last episode?”
I hate when he calls it that. Like my life is some damn soap opera. “Uh, maybe a few months ago. But it wasn’t really that bad.”
“What happened then?”
I shift a little, already trying to push back the feeling I had when the girl from the island party moved my hand to her breasts. I should’ve been all over it, but I couldn’t shut down the voice in my head that told me whatever I was about to do with her, I’d do it wrong. Then my heart rate picked up and my vision blurred. Why are women one of my damn triggers?
“It wasn’t really anything.” I lie. “Messing around with a girl, got heavy, and I stopped it.”
“Is that what happened this morning?”
A frustrated growl wants to rip out of my throat, but I push it back. I do the breathe-in-breathe-out thing Doc has always told me to do, even though it didn’t always work.
“Hmm . . . ,” he mutters to himself. I hear the scratching of a pen, and I keep my eyes closed, counting the breaths I’m taking. “Is this something you want to push back?”
“Huh?”
The chair squeaks a little as he shifts. “This episode with Emilia . . . is it like your other panic attacks when you want to push them back?”
My forehead crinkles as I run my hand over my short hair. There’s no way in hell I’d forget how her hands worked my muscles, and how soft her skin felt on mine. There’s no way I’d want to forget it.
A small laugh tumbles from my lips. “Hell, no.”
He chuckles. “Well, then, I think the panic attack you had this morning had more to do with what is possible with Emilia than Emilia herself.”
“What do you mean?” I open my eyes and tilt my head back to look at him. He’s got that pinched look like he’s struggling with what’s going on in his brain before he says it.
“How many relationships have you had since Ali?”
Easy. “Zero.”
“I think you sense there could be a potential relationship with Em, correct?”
Not really. “I don’t know.”
“Well, if that is the case, your mind is putting up barriers to keep you from it. Doesn’t mean you can’t break the barriers. In fact, I’d encourage you to try, but you’ll have to do it gently.”
“You mean, don’t dive into something I’m not ready for?”
“What your mind isn’t ready for.” He smiles. “I’m sure your body has been ready for a while.”
“Ugh . . . thanks for making me uncomfortable, Doc.”
“My job is to force you out of what’s comfortable.”
My arm swings over my eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”
“Did you want me to prescribe you something? I can write you up for some Xanax. That’s what you took before, right?”
I nod.
“Did that work for you?”
“Yeah, but . . .” I hoist myself up to a sitting position, fixing my scrubs. “Do you think I need it?”
“I don’t think you need medication, but it does help to have it on standby in case this happens again.”
“Um, yeah, okay.”
His pen scratches for another few seconds, and then he tears the paper from the clipboard and hands it to me. I fold it and stick it in my shirt pocket.
“In the meantime, though, I think you should keep talking. Psychotherapy is the best medicine.”
I snort. “You have to say that.”
He gestures for me to lie back down and I do, the tension already easing out of me.
“Your hour starts now,” he says, and I grin because he always did that for me. Guess I’m a needy patient.
* * *
I smell Lysol before I even open the door to the condo. I quickly wipe the sweat from my face with my gym towel before stepping inside. Em’s in the kitchen, stretching on her tiptoes to try to get a stack of tumblers on the top shelf. Her iPod’s in her back pocket, the white earbuds snaking up her orange tank top. She’s singing Florida Georgia Line at the top of her lungs, but it’s coming out strained as she tries to get those cups in place.
I drop my duffel and shut the door, taking a whiff of my shirt to make sure my deodorant is still effective. I’m good, even though I’m a little damp from my workout. Moving her open laptop out of the way so I don’t send it to the floor, I reach over her and grab the cups from her hand.
“Gah!” she gasps, clutching her chest. Once she recovers from the tiny scare I gave her, she pulls an earbud out and smacks me. “Geez, Eric, warn me or something next time.”
“Why? This is so much more fun.”
She hits me again, then pulls her iPod out and turns it off. She’s still humming “Round Here” when her eyes sort of widen, like she just remembered something, and she rushes to her computer and closes a few browsers.
“Looking at porn again?” I tease, but really, I can’t help but wonder what she’s hiding from me. Or maybe I’m just being paranoid.
“Checking the time. I have a Skype date tonight.”
The way her smile widens makes heat crawl through my neck. “Oh, yeah? With who?” Please say her dorm mate.
“My dad.”
That works, too. “He’s in the land of Internet?”
“For now.” She sighs, hand falling to the washcloth she must’ve soaked in the kitchen cleaner that I smelled coming up the stairs. Her teeth pull at her lip as she mindlessly wipes the counter by her laptop. “He’ll be on the Pacific for another month starting tomorrow.”
I know there’s something I should say to comfort her, but I can’t think of a damn thing, and I’m afraid to touch her. Before I can work myself up to it, the camera window pops up on her screen and her nose wrinkles as she looks at herself. “Um, will you actually watch this for me for a minute? In case he calls.”
“Sure.”
She wiggles around me, pulling at her top, and my eyes bulge as she starts stripping it off before she even gets to her room. I glimpse the smooth lines of her back and the bottom edge of her light-blue bra, and I have to grab the counter. I guess she took it to heart when I said to make herself at home.
Now if only I could do that.
Her computer makes weird, alien-sounding Skype tone, and I see a picture of Em’s dad’s pop up in the corner.
“Emmy?” I call, but she doesn’t answer. I hate Skype because I hate myself on camera. But it’s Em’s dad and she’ll kill me if she misses this.
I move the cursor over and click the answer button. Mr. Johnson’s bearded face pops up and his grin fades when he sees me.
“Uh, hello, sir.”
“Hi.” His forehead furrows and he moves like he’s trying to see behind me. “There’s a Mia there, right? I clicked the right button, didn’t I?”
“Yeah. She’s just in her room. I’ll go get her.”
“Hang on a second,” he says as I turn from the computer. “Who are you, and why are you in my daughter’s house?”
I laugh, moving in front of the camera again. “Mr. Johnson, it’s Eric.”
The lines in his forehead slowly smooth out. Have I really changed all that much? Feels like I’m still stuck in the same body I had three years ago.
“I’ll be damned,” he says, taking his hat off and running a hand through his graying hair.
“Yeah, I uh . . . lost some weight.”
“Well, I know where it went.” He pats his gut and chuckles. I smile because even though he gained weight since last I saw him, he’s still more in shape than I am.
“I’ll go get Em.”
“Good to see you, son.”
I salute him, then walk around the kitchen counter and down the hall. Just as I’m about to tap on her door, she swings it open and barrels into my chest.
I cringe because I’m sure running into a sweat-soaked shirt isn’t fun for her. She leans back and rubs the bridge of her nose. Her eyes lock with mine, and I can’t help but give her one big-ass doofy smile.
“You changed for a Skype conversation.” My smile widens as I gaze at her bright-blue T-shirt. “I gotta say, that’s pretty damn cute, Emmy.”
She blinks, and for a second it looks like her cheeks turn red, but then she lands a hard elbow in my gut I curl over, resting my hand on the wall behind her head.
I suck in a breath and pant out, “I call you cute, and you beat me up.”
“You were
making fun of me.”
I lean forward a bit to push off the wall, but I get real close to her face and stop. It seems like an intimate position for less than a second, but I can’t stay here. So I drop my arm and take a step back, rubbing my stomach.
“Your dad’s on.” I gesture to the computer. “I’m gonna hit the shower.”
“Probably a good idea.” She tugs on my shirt, but she doesn’t seem grossed out by it. She tightens her ponytail, then stretches over the counter to grab her laptop. Those cutoffs are going to undo me. My mind is already trying to come up with scenarios where I’d be allowed to touch her legs, or even accidentally grab some ass. But something thunders in my chest, causing my breath to come out like an old man’s wheezing. I force myself into the bathroom before I end up watching every movement she makes for the rest of the night and panicking over it.
Looks like I’m making a stop at the pharmacy tomorrow.
* * *
It was fourth and goal and Coach put me in. Ali led the cheerleaders in a routine that spelled my name, only they spelled it wrong. I thought that was funny at the time, since my last name was written as clear as could be on the back of my jersey, but now that I think about it, I should’ve expected her to not know that much about me. It was probably the hundredth clue telling me that our relationship wasn’t healthy.
I fall back on my mattress, twisting the old pigskin between my hands, and stare at the door. Em’s voice floats through, and so does her dad’s, but I can’t make out what they’re saying. It’s been so long since my shower that I’m pretty sure the towel I dropped on the floor is dry. I considered heading out to the beach, but I didn’t want to interrupt anything, so I secluded myself in my bedroom, only to find myself flashing back to the past every two minutes.
The football in my hands was the game ball. I don’t know how I ended up with it. All I did was sack the quarterback the last play of the game. We won, and I remember the team making a show of trying to lift me onto their shoulders, but they only got me a couple of inches off the ground before giving up. I laughed it off, but the look I got from Ali when I went to kiss her after that made me suck my laughter right back down my throat. It was another clue I should’ve picked up on. She pushed my face away, cringing as if I didn’t have any right to touch her. But she was my girlfriend. I didn’t get it.