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“Are you sure you’re okay?”
I nod. “I’m gonna shower and draw for a bit. I’ll be fine.”
“Okay.” He searches my face with a frown. He checks the time on his watch, nodding. “Just a couple more hours tops, I’d imagine.”
Grabbing a water from the minifridge, I murmur, “Okay.”
“Text or call if you need me.”
“I will.”
Footsteps retreat, and a moment later I hear the heavy gasp and thud of the hotel door opening and closing, locking behind him. My eyes fall shut, and I hang my head, giving up all pretenses.
My parents know better now than to hover when my anxiety acts up. It just makes it worse—takes me longer to talk myself down, because I’m too busy worrying about them.
I can tell it’s not always easy, leaving me to suffer on my own. But we’ve been through enough panic attacks and therapy over the years for even them to catch on to how much quicker I can snap out of it when they give me space, and I can focus on me and only me.
I pop a Xanax, washing it down with nearly half the bottle of water, before stripping down and grabbing a quick shower. I’ve been taking meds long enough that they don’t just knock me on my ass, but as I’m drying off, I can feel my muscles unlocking, and my head growing comfortably fuzzy.
When I go to rumple up my suit and throw it in my mesh linen bag, I remember my phone. Pulling it out, I see two messages waiting for me—both from Mason.
Grabbing my sketchbook and pencil, I climb into bed, and scoot up against the headboard before opening the texts.
Mase Face
Aye aye captain she’s heading in now
The second one was sent only minutes ago.
They just dropped the trailer for the new Spider-Man!!!!
“Oh shit,” I murmur, closing my messages, and pulling up YouTube to find it.
After I watch it, I return to my messages and thumb a response.
Looks badass! I can’t wait.
Seconds pass, once it’s delivered, with it still remaining unread. The time reads 9:24, and it’s a Saturday night, so I’m not surprised if he’s away from his phone, especially now that he’s caught up with Izzy. I lock it, and toss it aside. Reaching for the remote, I turn on the flat screen across from the bed, and find some mindless movie to put on in the background.
I could get my headphones, but for whatever reason I’m not really feeling it right now.
Despite the Xanax working through my system, I feel restless still—like that feeling you get when you’ve forgotten something, but can’t remember anything about what it is that you’ve forgotten.
Flipping open my sketchbook, I find my most recent work in progress—just a silly little concept drawing of a comic strip I had in mind. A rough outline of a figure with his back to me, cape billowing behind him, greets me, backdropped by a shadowy city skyline. Above, in a text bubble, I plan to write something witty—something sarcastic but charming the hero would say looking upon the city he protects…
Still working out what that might be. But the idea’s there, somewhere. Just have to root it out.
A few minutes later, I feel a vibration against my leg, and I pause in my shading. Bringing the pencil to my mouth, I pin it between my teeth, and grab my phone.
Me too! We’ll def have to go
I smile around the pencil, but just as quick as my elation comes, do I remember the decision I made earlier.
Spitting out the pencil, I lean my head back, staring up at the ceiling.
Either he’s not looking for a response, or just assumes it’s a done deal, because another text comes in before I can figure out what to say back.
So hows the party? steal any fancy champagne?
