“Long day today. There’s the Kressler presentation at nine-thirty, and then the American Psychiatric Associationluncheon at eleven-thirty. I’d like you present and taking notes for both…” I can’t make out the rest of what he’s saying, and his eyes quickly flick between mine. “Francesca?”
A low buzz is beginning in my mind, and I instantly recognize the start of a panic attack.
The room begins to spin and I’m suddenly hyperventilating?—
“Sit down,” he says quickly, guiding me to a nearby chair.
I vaguely register the soft cushion and warm hands on my thighs. Closing my eyes, I try to remember the strategies I used to bring myself down from the edge of a panic attack. A deep, soothing voice guides me down, breath by breath. My heartbeat slows, and I wipe my sweaty palms on the sides of my legs.
“…three, four, five…” A heavy sigh. “Good. You have some color back. Take another deep breath for me, Francesca.”
I do as he says, opening my eyes when I’m done.
Dr. Kincaid is kneeling in front of me with a concerned expression.
Ah, so the devil can have empathy.
“I’m okay,” I tell him with a shaky voice. “Panic attack.”
“I figured,” he says, frowning.
“They come on randomly sometimes.”
“I see,” he says simply. “Perhaps you should take the morning off?—”
“No,” I say quickly, placing my hands on top of his. We both suck in sharp breaths at the unexpected contact, and I pull awaybefore he can. “Distraction helps me more than anything. I’d like to attend the presentation and luncheon.”
“Very well.”
He stands up and holds a hand out, but I reject his help and stand up myself. My knees are wobbly, and my body is filled with frenetic energy that I know will cause me to crash later. Still, aside from the shaky legs, I feel a lot better.
“Let’s get you something to eat.”
Checking my watch, I see that it’s just past eight, and that gives us over an hour to eat.
This is going to be a very long hour.
This is going to be a very longsevendays.
How is it that it’s only been three days since we arrived? How do we have a week left?
I go through the motions of ordering breakfast at the restaurant, and fortunately Dr. Kincaid doesn’t speak—instead, he appears to be writing an email on his phone. It’s better that we’re quiet, anyway. The longer I sit, the more sore I get between my legs, and it’s just a reminder of what we did and what we’re not admitting to.
I’m not sure how much longer I can play this game.
Breakfast passes quickly, as does the presentation. By the time the luncheon rolls around, I expect Dr. Kincaid to pull me aside and apologize for last night, or inquire about mysleepfurther. However, much to my chagrin, he only appears to become even more confident and unaffected as the day goes on. After the luncheon, he’s called up to give a speech about his work with sleep disorders. I’m sure he’s going to confess afterward—a low, murmured confession as he comes to sit back down next to me—but he doesn’t. He just gives me a small nod before the luncheon ends.
He ushers me out of the dining room a minute later with everyone else.
“You may spend the afternoon as you please. I’m meeting with a few patients virtually in one of the conference rooms, and I’d like for you to join me for dinner tonight.”
“Okay,” I tell him. “I’ll catch up on emails and make sure your calendar is?—”
“Notworking, Francesca,” he practically growls. “I’m giving you the afternoon off.”
I have to bite my tongue to keep from asking,Because you feel guilty for what you did last night?But I don’t, because I didn’t hate it.
I liked it.
