I reach out and grab his upper arms, trying very hard not to think about the exact spot on my chest that now bears the smeared droplets of Holland’s forehead sweat.
If I wasn’t so concerned about this out-of-character behavior, I would be reaming him out for invading my personal space.
Time and a place for that, though.
“Hey, hey.” I use my most direct coach’s voice. Holland’s gaze is darting everywhere but to me. “Holland.Bradley!Look at me.“ Something in my even tone gets his attention.
His gaze snaps to mine. His chest is still heaving, and he reaches up and puts his hands on top of his head.
I drop my hands from his arms. “What is going on?”
“I-I-I…” Holland clamps his jaw shut, and I didn’t think it was possible, but his cheeks turn an even darker shade of red. He shakes his head and blows out a long breath. “I”—he begins slowly—“c-c-c-can’t.” His face crumples, and he drops his chin to his chest.
I’m momentarily stunned. Holland has never stammered like that. Does he have a speech impediment?
I shake my head. That doesn’t matter right now. What matters is that Holland is about to pass out if I don’t do something, because there is no way he’s getting enough oxygen.
“Holland. Listen to me. I think you’re having a panic attack.”
I’ve only been witness to one other panic attack. I walked in on my mom the day she got her CIDP diagnosis. She was standing next to the small island in my parents’ kitchen, muscles clenched and whole body trembling. I had no idea what to do, so I got her to sit down on the floor, and I plopped down next to her and started telling her about my day. Eventually, her breathing normalized, and she was able to tell me what she was feeling.
There have been very few other moments in my life when I’ve felt so helpless, and I vowed to be better prepared if there was ever a next time for my mom.
I don’t wait for Holland to confirm it for me now.
“It’s going to be okay. I know what to do. We’re going to stay right here.” I put my hands back on his arms. “You can get through this. Listen to me. Breathe in for four seconds. Hold it for two seconds. Then blow out for eight seconds. Let’s do it together. Here we go.”
I breathe and watch as he mimics my action, eyes now locked on mine.
“Good. Again.” We do this three more times, and I feel his body uncoil under my fingers. “Good. Any better?”
He nods.
I take a step back from him as he tugs on his bow tie.
“Did something happen out there?” I ask after a moment.
He shakes his head no.
“Do you want to talk about it? You don’t have to,” I add. This is uncharted territory for me. Holland is usually so…so sure of himself.
Now, he’s like a wounded animal, limping out of oncoming traffic.
Or a caged animal, trapped with precariously placed wine bottles and his overdressed golf coach.
This night—or should I say, morning?—is so weird.
He swallows hard. “I…” He starts slowly, as if testing whether his mouth is going to cooperate. “I don’t…” He pauses again and mouths the rest of his sentence before speaking it out loud. “I don’t know…what happened to me,” he concludes.
We stand in silence for a couple moments. I’m not exactly sure what to do now. My technical knowledge of panic attacks doesn’t extend to humiliatedMost Eligible Misterleads.
“There are j-just…” He clenches his jaw, as if disgusted with himself. He takes a deep breath. “Just,” he enunciates, “so many.”
“Women?” I clarify.
He nods. “I know what you’re thinking. This is what I signed up for.”
Guilty. But at least when he’s calling me out, his words seem to come more smoothly.