Once inside, I fall back against the wall, my spine thumping against the tile so hard, the impact ripples through me.
Trying to calm my brain, to remind it that we’re suffering an attack, that we can control it, I shut my eyes and focus on each limb, attempting to relax them and push breath through my chest. To concentrate on…on…Onwhat? I can’t…
“Jude.” Soft hands cup my face. Gentle. Firm.Cypress. Desperate, I zero in on her—her voice, her touch, her roses-and-apple scent—to ground me, to drag me out of the blackness threatening to suck me under. “Jude, look at me.”
Each of my eyelids feels like it weighs a ton, but I pry them both open, and her face wavers before me, fuzzy, but the longer I stare at her, the clearer she becomes. Knowing how I must look to her in this barely clean bathroom—trembling, out of control, weak—I still clutch her hips, draw her closer and closer until her thighs press to mine, her chest is a tangible weight against me, and her breath is a warm flutter against my throat.
“Focus on me,” she orders. Peeling one hand from her hip, she splays my palm and fingers over her chest, covering it with hers. Her heart beats against her sternum, and the steady rhythm pulses up my arm, reaching for the same organ jackhammering away at my rib cage. “Breathe with me.” She draws a long, even breath in through her mouth, holds it, then exhales through her nose. “Do it with me, baby.”
She repeats the breathing exercise, and I follow her lead, mimicking her pattern. Her face, with those stunning angles, curves, and dips, fills my vision, and slowly, so slowly the darkness starts to recede, the dagger-sharp talons of panic release me inch by resentful inch.
“That’s it,” she murmurs, the thumb of the hand still cradling my face sweeping light caresses over my cheek. Acknowledging it reveals even more weakness, I nuzzle her palm, would burrow in it, in her, if I could.
“Thank you,” I rasp, embarrassment crawling through me that she witnessed me like this—broken, exposed. “Goddamn,” I snap, closing my eyes. But it’s pathetic, without heat. It’s tired. As tired as I am. Removing my hands from her chest and hip, I drag both through my hair, clenching the strands and pulling hard until pain blooms along my scalp. This time my “goddamn” is softer, sadder, carrying the burden of everything that triggered this attack in the first place.
“You okay?” she asks, and I look down at her. Bracing myself for the pity sure to be darkening her blue gaze.
Fuck, it’s going to gut me.
If it were there. But it’s not. There’s warmth, concern, sympathy, but no pity.
“I’m good,” I lie, lowering my arms. True, this episode has passed, but the next one is lurking there in my subconscious, gleefully waiting to be triggered. It’s like living with a demon in my head. And the demon is me. “What are you doing here?”
“My mom used to have panic attacks. Especially right after Dan left. They’ve become less and less frequent through the years, but occasionally, she still suffers them.” She studies me as she almost casually drops this info like it’s a fact of life instead of an aberration of the mind not being able to cope. “How often does this happen?”
Maybe it’s her straightforward, no-nonsense manner that has me answering without hedging or flat-out refusing to speak about it. Maybe it’s just…her.
“Lately…often.”
She nods, her scrutiny almost too sharp, too…knowing. “The scene in the shop? Did it trigger this?”
“Yeah.” I clench my jaw, a last-ditch attempt at self-preservation. Being the secret keeper of this family has ingrained silence into me, and though the truth pushes at my throat, hovers on my tongue, reflex has me trapping it. But her hand curling around my neck, those elegant fingers with their newly formed callouses stroking my throat, unlocks the door. “Ana and I were together for a little under a year before I ended it. At first, it was good. I’m not going to lie, that a girl from the Gold Coast was all about me felt good.”
“Gold Coast. West Coast. What the Hell Coast. Have you seen yourself? Rich, poor, freaking royalty. Any woman would have to be dead not to be all about you,” she mutters.
I trace the shallow cleft in her chin, lingering over the little dip. “Thanks, beautiful.” I don’t remind her that she isn’t all about me. “She was sweet and made no secret about wanting to spend time with me, be with me. But my job, my hours—” I shake my head. “Soon, she wasn’t quite so understanding. Because I’m an artist, I couldn’t escort her to the parties she attended. I couldn’t just drop everything and travel with her to New York, Miami, or L.A. She wanted all my time, and I couldn’t give her that. And then there was the jealousy. She’d fly into a rage if I touched a woman, including my clients. The confident, funny, independent woman I met and fell for became needy, angry, and clingy. I couldn’t deal with that. Didn’t want to deal with that. We weren’t for each other.”
“She obviously doesn’t feel that way,” Cypress murmurs.
I shake my head. “No. I ended it four months ago, but she won’t accept it. Today was just one example of how bad she’s in denial. Calling my phone, texting until I’ve had to shut it off. Dropping in at my house at all hours. Even showing up at the bar when we go out. She’s…”
“A stalker,” she interjects, biting off the word. “And probably a little mentally unstable, if today is anything to go by. Why don’t you call the cops? At least get a TRO. From what I saw, she’s nowhere near letting go.”
I briefly close my eyes, and when I open them again, Cypress goes still. As if sensing whatever I’m about to say is going to drag her deeper into my drama than she intended. Yet she doesn’t remove her hand. Doesn’t stop touching me. If anything, her hold on me tightens.
“A month ago, I was working when she called. I didn’t answer it, not feeling like dealing with the bullshit. She called again, and again, I didn’t pick up. After the fifth time, I did, mad as hell.” I swallow hard, dislodging the emotional mass momentarily blocking my throat, but the effort is reflected in my voice. When I do finally speak again, it’s like a bag of shattered glass has scored my esophagus. “I could barely hear her. At first, because of the slurring words, I thought she was drunk. But…she threatened to kill herself. And I can’t—” I stop myself from revealing too much.
“Oh God,” Cypress breathes, the starlight in her denim gaze bright. “Jude…”
“I had Knox call 911 and rushed over there. I beat the paramedics by minutes, but she hadn’t followed through. Yet…”
I press harder against the wall as if I could escape the memory. And Cypress follows me, aligning her body with mine, her curves countering my frame, giving me something—someone—to hold on to.
“Later, she told me why she said it,” I continue, needing to get it all out. “She thought she couldn’t go on another day without me. That gutted me. Had I done that to her? Dragged her to such a dark place, she couldn’t see any reason to live? I can’t… What if Ihadn’tanswered the phone at all…”
“Stop it,” Cypress snaps. Rising on her toes, she gets in my face, applying pressure to the back of my neck so I lower my head toward her. I can’t miss the fire in her eyes, the fierceness in her voice. “I hate it that she ended up in such a hopeless place. I’ve seen it with my mother. Hell, I’ve been there myself. But, Jude, her attempting to take her own life? That’s not on you. That’sallher. And I hate to sound like a bitch, but for her to ring your damn phone off the hook five times and not go forward with her horrible plan, she didn’t want to die. Then to dump a guilt trip on you afterward? That’s. Bull. Shit,” she snarls. “Utter bullshit. Even then, she couldn’t take responsibility for her actions but instead continued the manipulation, trying to shame you into going back to her. She needs help, baby. And the help she needs you can’t give to her. So stop going down the what-if path because it leads to nowhere.”
I stare at her, stunned. Lifting my hands, I cup her face, tilt it back, and whisper against her lips, “Thank you.”
