Page 130 of Relationship Goals
I want him to admit what he did wrong.
Sweat breaks out on my forehead, and I decide I need to up the ante.
“What’s it got in its pocketses, precious?” I say, jumping onto the balls of my feet. My fingers flutter against his upper thighs.
One eyebrow raises, and instead of shoving me off, which I hoped for, his hands raise to steady me, grabbing my hips.
He pulls me close, our noses nearly touching. Well, his nose and my Darren-made nose.
My chest hurts, and my eyes go wide as I pull back from him.
“What is it?” His grip on me changes, gentling, and my stomach cramps, my heart hammering against my chest.
But not in a good way.
“Oh no,” I pant. “I can’t breathe.”
“Tell me what’s wrong,” he demands, eyes wild, pressing a hand to my forehead.
His touch hurts. I can’t bear it.
My heart hurts. It hurts like it’s cracked irreparably, sending splinters into my lungs. I am going to throw up or have a heart attack or die. I don’t want to die dressed as Gollum.
My fingers scrabble at the prosthetics on my makeup. “I can’t breathe,” I repeat.
“You’re sweating,” he tells me, eyes narrowed.
“Can’t breathe,” I hiccup. Tears squeeze out of my eyes, my anxiety escalating. “I need this off of me, I need it off.”
“Oh, shit, Abigail.” Luke leaps to his feet, hugging me tight to his chest as he literally carries me to the bathroom.
“No, no. I don’t want you to see this,” I say. I’m sweating profusely now. “I don’t want to throw up.”
“Love, you can’t help it. If it’s gonna happen, just let it happen.”
I groan, tucking my knees in tight to my chest, like that’s a good idea.
It is not, in fact, a good idea. It doesn’t help at all.
“Bathroom, bathroom, bathroom,” I chant. It’s like all the air in my body is trying to leave at once. I’m positively slick with sweat.
“I’m gonna die,” I tell him, my chest impossibly tight.
“It’s okay, I’ve got you. I’ve got you, Abigail.” His head whips around. “Where do you want to be? In front of the toilet or—”
“I don’t know, I don’t know what I want. Take the mask off, please, take it off,” I chant, hardly holding onto consciousness. “Can’t breathe.”
A cool washcloth lands against the back of my neck, and I whimper as another wave of pain pummels me.
“What else can I do?” Luke’s voice is gentle and worried. “I think you’re having a panic attack.”
“I don’t have panic attacks,” I tell him, sobbing, peeling back the makeup as best I can. The nose piece is the worst, and I tug at it, Luke also helping pull the prosthesis from my ears and neck. “I am so stupid, I’m sorry.”
“You are not stupid, and don’t you dare apologize.” He sounds thunderous and looks terrified all at once.
He’s right. Why am I apologizing? He’s the liar here.
I try to suck in a breath, and I can’t, I can’t do it, I can’t think straight. My chest hurts. I clutch at it, still sweating so much. How is it possible to sweat this much?
