“Phoebe--she was at the party last night.”
“Ok,” I feign indifference. “But she’s not my girl. And she’s allowed to go to a party.” It seems an odd choice for her, but who the hell am I to judge?
“Right, but she didn’t just go to the party--she had a freaking panic attack on Jase’s girlfriend’s lawn.”
My blood feels like ice. “What? What happened? Who messed with her?”
“Dude, I don’t know--I wasn’t there that early, but I heard him talking about the girl who lost her shit when Brody shotgunned a beer. My ears perked up, and sure enough--it was Phoebe. I figured you’d want to know. I know I told you to stay in your lane, but--I don’t know, man. Just figured you should know she lost her shit.”
I’m pacing in front of the door, and I don’t even realize it until Whit grips my shoulders. “Ty, you need to chill.”
I ignore his advice. “I gotta go--”
“Don’t do anything stupid,” Whit calls.
“Pretty sure it’s too late for that,” Knox says, and I can’t disagree.
Chapter 5
Phoebe
I wake up alone on Ian’s couch. Mel was right--it’s really comfortable. I finally drifted off a little after four, and a glance at my phone tells me it’s nearly eight. Four hours, especially in a strange place, has to be a record for me.
I fold up the blankets I slept on and lay them across the pillow. I’m trying to figure out if I should call for a ride when Ian comes in wearing a button-down and a bow tie. He must have class today. “Hey, did you sleep ok? Or, you know, at all?”
“Yea,” I tell him. “Four hours. I’ll take it.”
“Good. Coffee?”
“Yea, I’d love a cup. I follow him into the kitchen and perch on a stool at the counter as he busies himself with a machine that looks nearly as fancy as the ones they have at Drip.
“It’s none of my business, so feel free to tell me to shut my mouth, but you know they do make meds that help you sleep.”
“I know. And I have them. The problem is, they make me way too sleepy.”
He nods, placing a steaming cup of coffee in front of me. “I get that. Again, feel free to tell me to shut my big mouth, but is your insomnia tied to…”
Again, I nod. “The official diagnosis is PTSD-induced insomnia. And yea, it started after my brother died. At first, I was busy making sure things got done, you know. Basic things like paying the mortgage and washing the dishes. My mom was almost completely numb with meds for months afterward. But then, once I had time to sleep, nightmares would come. So, it’s kind of like my body is programming itself to avoid sleep until I just collapse.”
“You’re made of tough stuff, Phoebe.” He takes a sip of his own coffee, and I take a drink of mine.
“Maybe not so tough? I mean, I kind of had an epic meltdown last night. Mel’s friends must think I’m nuts.” I shudder just thinking about it.
“First off, who cares what they think? Seriously. Those people, and their opinions, do not matter.”
I shrug. “I know you’re right, but...ugh. It’s just one more sign that I don’t belong here, you know?”
He shakes his head. “No, tell me about it.” Damn. This guy will make a really good therapist some day.
“Well, I just feel guilty, I guess. I mean, here I am at college, doing my thing, and it just seems unfair. Dylan never got to live out his dream. And my mom? She’s surviving, at best. So, yea, part of me feels like a jerk for even being here. And then there’s the fact that I’m all but failing my Jane Austen class. I’m pretty sure I bombed our test and I have a paper due tonight and it’s total trash. Add in yesterday’s panic attack? Uh, yea… It’s safe to say that going away to school just isn't for me.”
Ian nods, then takes another sip of coffee. “Listen, you need to do what’s right for you, but if you want some advice? Cut yourself some slack, Phoebe. Your mom and your brother? I have no doubt they want you to be happy wherever you are--whether that’s at home, or here, or somewhere else? Well, that’s up to you. And the class? Trust me, you are not the first person to struggle with that. Check out the writing center--they have student tutors who are really helpful. And as far as your panic attack? I’d say you managed that pretty well. Mel showed me your text--you knew you needed to go, knew you’d reached your limit. You got to a safe place and you’re a bit better today, yea?”
“Yea.” I take a sip of coffee.
“I’m pretty sure that’s all any of us can ask of ourselves. Are we a little bit better today than yesterday? If we can say yes, most days? Then I think we’re doing ok.” He takes our empty cups and sets them in the sink. “You want a ride over to campus? Or feel free to veg here for a while.”
“A ride back would be great,” I tell him. “And thank you. For everything.”
