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“Well how about that? I guess Emmy and I will have to fight over who gets to take you as our date. Because my show was nominated for the Reality TV Series category!” he told me, and my face grew instantly hot and my heart dove into my gut.
It had been one thing trying to make a plan to see each other, to be in his physical presence for only the second time since we met and had grown so close. Closer than I’ve ever been with another human being before. Closer than even Emmy and me. But it was a whole different ballgame when there was an actual date circled in hot pink gel pen on my calendar.
I had mumbled something stupid and obvious about Dean being her date, making him laugh, and apparently hearing the nervousness in my voice, he immediately assured me. “It’s going to be okay, sugar. No reason to be worried. It’s just me.”
Just him.
Just him?
Him is the greatest thing ever created other than the bomb-ass Instant Pot gizmo he bought me—which he’s taught me to cook several more meals in, walking me through it while we video chat, most of the time him in a hotel room or on a break at an event.
Him is the man who sets my blood on fire, sending hot waves of wetness with the simple attachment of a selfie.
Him is the person I see in my dreams every night, no matter the sometimes-flabbergasting stories I hear from patients throughout the day.
For the past three weeks, he’s been trying to make me believe that the second we see each other again, it’ll be like he never left. He’s convinced that it’s adrenaline from the anticipation making us feel all jittery and nervous. I can’t count how many times I’ve used my “Hey, who’s the psychologist here?” in these past twenty-one days.
And thank God for being a therapist, because as I sit on the plane, waiting for it to come to a stop at the gate in Los Angeles, I practice every breathing technique I can recall from my training. I feel nauseous with anxiety, and I close my eyes, wanting to kick myself for listening to Curtis when he mansplained I needed to eat something before the flight, since it would be over four hours before I had access to real food again, and “the pretzels and crackers they pass out aren’t good enough, sugar.”
My temples grow wet with cold sweat as the plane finally parks and the door opens. I’m only in the second row back, because Curtis insisted on buying me a First-Class ticket so he could “see me a few minutes faster” than if I sat in Coach. I feel fidgety and worried as I grab my purse from beneath the seat in front of me and stand, side-stepping out of my row and into the aisle. I give the flight attendant and pilots a weak smile as they tell me to have a nice day and start to shuffle my way up the gangway.
God, what the hell is wrong with me? Is this a normal reaction to seeing a man you’re pretty sure you’ve irrevocably fallen in love with after being apart for a month?
My psychologist mind tells me it’s fine. I might be on the verge of an anxiety attack, a panic attack even, but the moment I see Curtis, it’ll all be fine. The moment he wraps me in his big, strong arms and I inhale his scent once more, after it finally wore off my pillow a couple weeks ago, all will be right in my world, my serotonin will kick in, and all this craziness going on inside me that’s manifesting these uncomfortable physical reactions will level out and disappear.
At the end of the tunnel, the light grows brighter as I step out into the airport. It’s smaller than I imagined. You see all these tabloid photos of celebrities in baseball caps and sunglasses at LAX and you’d think it’d be extravagant or at least lined with countless stores and restaurants. But it’s actually kind of dull, only a handful of stores and a couple food court style restaurants, at least in this terminal.
I glance up and see the sign for baggage claim, swallowing the saliva gathering under my tongue. My heartbeat feels fast and shallow, like the flapping of a hummingbird’s wings as I make my way around the corner and out of the secured All-Gates area, and I see the circular conveyer belts up ahead.
There are benches next to them, and as the edges of my visions start to vignette, I tell myself if I can just make it to those benches without giving in to the full-on panic attack creeping up inside me, then I can reward myself by sitting down and putting my head between my knees until I can calm down.
