The Cheat Sheet: A Romantic Comedy

by Sarah Adams

  I make it to Lily’s house about half an hour before the party. Good thing too because my entrance is so epic it would show everyone else up and make them feel terrible for their mediocre existence in life. I am The Fun Aunt. Aka, I don’t have any kids yet and therefore still enjoy running wild around the house, screaming and flailing my arms like a monster on the hunt for little boys while my sister hides in the bathroom with the glass of wine I’ve poured her.

  I throw open the front door and hold my hands up in the air, showing off my bling. “Holla! Aunt Bree is in the house!” I’m decked out with Ring Pops on every finger. Three candy necklaces adorn my neck, and a superhero cape is draped over my shoulders. Gift bags full of Legos, water guns, and bubble gum (because what kid doesn’t like bubble gum) are cutting off the circulation of my forearms.

  I hear the stampede of nephews before I see them. I brace for impact as they run down the stairs, scream my praises, and hug my legs, and then one by one, I’m robbed of my loot. They don’t even leave me with a single Ring Pop! The little footpads run off, and all I see is a haze of birthday bags as they brush past my sister, who is now approaching in the hallway with a scary smirk.

  She levels me with a frosty glare. “You brought sugar into my house when I already had CAKE AND ICE CREAM?!”

  “No.” I shake my head aggressively. “You misunderstood what you saw. Those were broccoli pops.”

  “And the candy necklaces?”

  “Vitamins.”

  At this, she cracks a gorgeous smile and opens her arms. “Get over here and hug me you terrible, terrible sister.”

  Mid-hug, I hear the door open behind me and my mom’s voice trill through the air. “My babies are hugging!! HAROLD, GRAB THE BAGS YOURSELF! MY GIRLIES ARE HUGGING!”

  Mom barrels into us next and squeezes with all her motherly might. She fusses over Lily first and smacks her right butt cheek. “You haven’t been eating enough. Don’t worry, I’ll fix it while I’m here.” She looks over her shoulder and calls to our dad, who we’ve yet to see. “HAROLD, BRING IN THE CASSEROLE!” Of course Mom made a casserole.

  Next, her sharp blue eyes turn to me, and I wonder what lecture I’ll receive. She gets close—closer than close, and narrows her eyes like she’s looking into a crystal ball.

  “You’ve been kissing Nathan.”

  I gasp. “How did you know that?!”

  She waves me off. “I’m a mom, honey. I’ve always known everything, and I always will. It’s called motherly intuition.”

  Lily cackles and then yells, “Bologna! It’s called Twitter! She signed up for a dummy account a few weeks ago and didn’t tell us. She saw your red carpet kiss.” Mom looks affronted. “Yeah, thought I didn’t notice, didn’t ya? Well I did, Mrs. Brightstone!”

  “You didn’t,” I say, looking at my guilty mother. Mrs. Brightstone was the name she’d always use when we played dress-up growing up. She was a very wealthy woman—always going to balls in her mink coats. (Don’t throw paint, they were really only scratchy wool blankets.)

  “I didn’t think you’d remember! And I had to! I knew you’d start filtering your content if you knew I was following you.”

  “What? No way, Mom. You’re cool, and we’ve always known it.”

  She smiles and turns with her oversized purse whipping against her hip as she saunters into the kitchen, at which point Lily and I both show each other our wide eyes and crossed fingers.

  Mom yells from the kitchen like some sort of supernatural being, “Uncross those fingers, ladies, and gather the boys! It’s time to TikTok!”

  At that moment, Dad emerges through the front door, loaded down like a pack mule with enough luggage to last them a month, beads of sweat trailing down his forehead, and a casserole tin clamped under his arm. “Please tell me Nathan is here too. He’s the only one who will be able to talk your mother out of the costumes she brought for the dance video she wants to do.”

  I highly doubt that, but still, I throw my dad some hope. “He said he’ll be here.”

  I’m almost to Bree’s sister’s house and I’m two hours late. After practice, I was already set to be an hour late, but then I sat on I-605 in traffic for another hour. I’m exhausted. Frazzled. And really wanting to bump the minivan in front of me to get it to go faster even though I think the stick family wearing mouse ears on the back windshield is supposed to deter me. It doesn’t.

  Probably should have had my car service bring me, but…I don’t know. Sometimes when I’m tired and I think it would be great to take a nap, I feel the need to push myself harder. Plus I hate taking the SUV to personal events. It feels like I’m showing up with a blinking sign that says, LOOK AT ME I’M SPECIAL!

  I let go of the steering wheel to rub my chest. It’s tight, and my heart rate is still high from practice. Bree was probably right—I should have gone home tonight. I couldn’t though. Things finally seem to be happening for us, and I want to demonstrate to her that I can be there for her and have a career in the NFL. I don’t want her to feel overlooked or put aside. I know she values family and events like this, so I want to show up for her. Maybe it’s just because I’m feeling deliriously tired, but during that brief kiss on the couch the other day (and definitely the one in the hallway that I’m still thinking about), I could have sworn she wanted it just as much as I did. Wanted me.

  My wooing is working, and I can’t believe it. All this idiotic stuff the guys told me to do is freaking working. Bree and I are…I can’t even let myself think about it yet. Until I hear the words “Nathan, I don’t see you as just a friend anymore” come straight from her mouth, I’m not going to be able to accept it.

  Finally, around eight PM, I pull into Lily’s driveway. It’s dark, but the lights in the house are illuminating the windows, and occasionally a little shadow darts past. After opening my truck door, I can hear absolute mayhem inside. I smile to myself because growing up as an only child, my house was always quiet. I love this. I want this.

  My knocks on the front door go unanswered, so I let myself in. Chaos hits me like a tsunami.

  Kids. Are. Everywhere.

  So many of them in all different shapes and sizes. They are cackling and screaming, running through the halls with little nerf guns and pelting foam pellets at each other. I’ve met Lily’s boys a few times and Bree has brought their entire family to a few games, so the nephews know me right away. The birthday boy, Levi, sees me first and sprints toward me. I’m braced for impact, but he stops right in front of me and flashes me his toothless smile. “Nathan! Look at my new nerf gun!” He’s pumped, and I act as though I’ve never seen anything greater in my entire life.

  I didn’t know what to get him, so I pulled a few strings and had most of the guys on the team sign a football for him. When he pulls it out of the bag, it’s clear I’ve epically failed, but he tries his best to look impressed.

  “Oh. A football. Cool! Thanks.” It’s garbage. He hates it. I sort of love it, though, that some grown men would sell their kidney for that ball, and this kid savagely tosses it onto the couch. Old news.

  And then they yell, “Quarterback sack!”

  I immediately have ten little leeches on me, and I can’t shake them off. Even though I’m not feeling it right now, I decide to just run through the narrow main hallway like a growling bear all the way back to the kitchen, because I know play and fun are how this family does things.

  In the kitchen, I find all the adults. Too many adults actually. It’s suddenly clear this is not just a family party, but a massive birthday gathering where the parents were all invited to stay too. Cool, cool, cool. It’s somehow even louder in here, everyone laughing at a higher than normal volume. Chill, Nathan, it’s a party—of course they’re going to laugh loudly.

  One guy sitting on a barstool at the counter spots me first. He does a double take. “Uh—is that…Nathan Donelson?” He’s wearing an LA Sharks shirt, so I know this can’t be good. I’m really not in the right frame of mind to deal with fans tonig
ht.

  I raise my hand in a small wave and look around the room for Bree. She’s standing by the sink filling a pitcher with water. At the mention of my name, her head of long gorgeous curls swivels in my direction. She’s wearing a yellow cotton dress with a long line of wooden buttons down the front. Bree looks like a literal ray of sunshine, and man is she a sight for sore eyes after this long, grueling week. I want to run my hands down her bare arms and soak up all of her attention. I want to steal her out of here and keep her all to myself.

  Our gazes connect, and for one glorious moment, everything else falls away. It’s just me and her here. Her smile splits across her face, and my favorite dimples punctuate her cheeks.

  And then I’m punched hard in the stomach by a random kid, and I double over with a curse not suitable for said kid’s ears. There’s more chaos now.

  “Nathan! Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry. Kids, OFF!” I’m not even sure who said that. Parents are fussing around me, peeling each of their relentless sugar-fueled offspring off of me. It’s a swarm of adults and children all invading my personal space in this narrow portion of the kitchen that connects to the main hallway. Bree is trying to make her way through the crowd, but I’m trapped, and she can’t get to me.

  Lily’s head pops into the mix out of nowhere and acts like this scene of pandemonium is completely normal. “Hi, Nathan! It’s good to see you!” She squeezes under my arm to slide her way through the people and into the kitchen.

  “Nathan’s here?!” That’s Bree’s mom. I’d know her voice anywhere, but I can’t see her because three dudes are pressing in, reaching over their wives who are corralling the kids. Really? You want a handshake right now, man? Bree is outside of everyone still just trying to make her way through. Someone hands her a baby and she’s trying to hand it back.

  Doug comes up behind me and slaps me on the back. “Good to see you, man! Hell of a game last week.”

  I’m smiling—I think?—and trying to answer everyone’s congratulations and introductions while a kid is pickpocketing my wallet. (Did I say I want a big family? I changed my mind.)

  Everything. Is. Swirling.

  I’m aware of my jaw tightening, teeth clenching painfully. I haven’t even made it fully into the kitchen yet. I’m still stuck in this damn hallway, surrounded by people. An urge to wave my arms around frantically and yell GET BACK! nearly overtakes me. I want to throw my elbows side to side until they all scatter. But I can’t—I know I can’t. I have to stand here like I always do and take it all with a winning smile.

  I need to focus on the voices, but they’re all slowed down, mixed together—muted. I can’t follow them. I can’t swallow. My heart is racing and I feel like I’ve been plunged in icy water. Where is Bree? I can’t find her.

  Why do my limbs feel heavy and numb? There’s a falling sensation, and the fact that I know I’m not really falling only makes my heart pound faster. Something is wrong. I can’t breathe. My chest. My fingers. My breath. What’s happening to me?

  I have to…

  I can’t…

  I just…

  Oh no. Something is wrong.

  I watch as everyone clamors for Nathan’s attention and suddenly, his face goes pale. His eyes look distant and glazed. His shoulders are rounding in on themselves and he takes a step away from everyone. It’s so noisy in this tiny hallway that I’m barely able to hear him say, “I’m sorry, I’ve got to…”

  He turns away from everyone and dashes down the hallway. There are about 12 bodies between me and Nathan and I push through them with the gusto of a Black Friday shopper fighting for the last doorbuster TV. “Excuse me. Just let me—ugh, MOVE, Doug!”

  I emerge from the mob and stare down an empty entryway. He’s nowhere to be found. I run into the living room, but I don’t see him. He’s not in the dining room. I check outside. His truck is still parked, but he’s not out here. I’m frantic now, like I’ve lost my child in the mall. Nathan looked terrible right before he disappeared, and I’ve got to find him.

  I decide to look up the stairs and peek in all the rooms. Finally, I see the door to the laundry room cracked with the light off. Inside, I find my mountainous best friend curled up in the corner, shaking. Nathan—my unflappable-Nathan—has his knees up to his chest, big arms wrapped around his legs, head dropped between them. I can hear his gasping breaths from here.

  I rush over and drop down beside him, resting my hand heavily on his back. “Nathan, hey, shhh it’s okay. I’m here.”

  “I can’t—” He tries to drag in a breath again. His shoulders are heaving. I put my hand on his chest and feel his heart pounding as if he just outran a bear. “I can’t breathe. I feel like I’m going to pass out.” All of this comes out in a frantic rush, like he’s desperate. “Am I dying?” he asks, completely genuine and terrified, and now I know for sure what’s happening.

  I scrunch in closer and stretch out my legs around him so I can pull his back against my chest. Winding my arms around him, I hold him tight. “No, you’re not dying, I promise. You’re having a panic attack.” He’s shaking from head to toe, and my heart twists painfully. I know what he’s feeling right now. “Just listen to my voice, okay? I’m here. You’re safe. It feels like you’re dying, but you’re not. Now, all I want you to focus on is how my arms feel around you. Are they tight or loose?”

  He expels a shaky breath and, after a long pause, answers, “Tight.”

  “Right. I’m not letting go. Now, what do you smell?” I wait for his answer, and when he doesn’t reply, I gently ask again. “Nathan? Tell me what you smell.”

  “Umm…cake,” he finally murmurs, voice raspy.

  “Yeah, it smells so good. It’s vanilla with sprinkles. My favorite. Do you have any tastes in your mouth?”

  I can feel his breath evening out a little and the tightness in his body loosening. I resituate one of my arms so I can run my hand tenderly up and down his arm.

  “Mint,” he says quietly. “I had gum in my mouth, but I think I swallowed it.” He sounds so defeated and embarrassed by that. I know the fear and mortification of having someone experience my panic attack, of being seen so out of control and frantic. I want him to know I will never view him differently or see him as less just because I’ve seen him undone.

  “That’s okay. I’ve done that before. I mean, I’ve only ever been able to taste watermelon-mint ever since then, but it’s not so bad.”

  I get a minuscule chuckle from him so I know he must be coming back down to me. I lean my head against his shoulder blade and kiss him there. He sinks back against me a little more, his limbs loosening slightly.

  We sit like this for a few minutes, and I talk to him until his breathing sounds normal again and his weight is heavy against me. My palm is pressing against his chest, and when his hand covers mine, I know he’s feeling more like himself. He squeezes.

  “How did you know what was happening to me and what to do?” he asks, his voice hoarse and broken.

  “Because after my accident, I used to get them all the time. Any time I got in a car for the first few weeks, the panic would settle in. It’s the worst feeling. Like everything is closing in and you can’t escape it. Like you would be willing to claw out of your skin just to get a minute of relief.”

  “Yeah,” he says weakly. “Exactly.”

  Silence stretches between us. Shirts are hanging above our heads on the drying rack, and the tile floor beneath my legs is cold. Nathan’s hand falls to my shin, and he squeezes. A silent show of gratitude.

  “Are you feeling better now?” I peek over his shoulder to see his face, but he turns it away.

  “Yeah,” he says, though his voice shakes.

  “Nathan?” I crane my neck around his shoulder, but he won’t look at me.

  His shoulders begin to shake again, but it’s not the frantic sort of tremor from before. “Please, don’t…just don’t look at me right now.” He raises his hand to press his thumb and index finger into his eyes.

  “
Why not?”

  There’s a pause followed by a broken inhale. “Because…I’m going to cry like a baby,” he says, echoing my sentiment after my spill on the sidewalk a few days ago. “You can go back out there. I’m okay now. Just go.” He’s not trying to be mean. He’s desperately trying to preserve his dignity.

  I hold on tighter. “You can always cry with me, Nathan. We’re safe with each other.”

  This breaks him wide open.

  He drops his head into his hands and a sob racks his frame. I hold on to him, pressing my palms into his chest so he can feel that I’m here, that I’m not going anywhere, that he could cry enough tears to fill the ocean and I would still think he’s the strongest person I know.

  Suddenly, he twists, wraps his arms around my waist, and pulls me onto his lap. My legs are on either side of his, but there’s absolutely nothing sensual about this moment. I am his anchor. He wraps his arms tightly around me and buries his head in my neck, crying in a way I’m sure he never has before.

  I run my hands through the back of his hair. “Nathan, talk to me.”

  It takes him a moment, but finally he answers. “I’m so tired. I’ve had this tightness in my chest for weeks, and this is the first time it’s lessened at all. I feel broken. I used to be able to handle everything, but…”

  “But now not so much?”

  He nods against me.

  “You’re not broken. Having a panic attack or anxiety does not reflect your wholeness. You’re burned out, and that’s completely understandable. You push yourself more than anyone I’ve ever seen before, and it’s only natural for you to reach this point.”