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She looked at the two older women occupying the head of the table. Twin heads of faded copper hair tinted in silver, leaned together as they laughed at something their younger relatives said. One glance and Maggie identified them as the matriarchs of this clan. Grandchildren, nieces, and nephews hung on their every word as they told stories and teased the younger generations.
She’d never known such a lovely sight, never saw family come together in such living color where flaws were unhidden and love seemed the only code. There was no struggle here, no pain, no loss, only togetherness. And she didn’t belong.
Her chest tightened. She couldn’t stay here.
A wave of emotion churned from her belly, burning up her throat like acid. She feared suddenly bursting into tears. Her hand noticeably shook as she placed her fork on the plate.
“Excuse me,” she muttered, pushing up from the table and abandoning her seat before she fell apart in front of a bar full of strangers.
“Maggie?” Sam looked up, her eyes brimming with concern.
“I’m sorry. I have to go.” The words choked out painfully as she swallowed down a sob.
Disoriented by the smothering crowd, she pushed through the throng and tried to find her way to the front of the bar. She couldn’t see past the bodies crowding her and lost track of the stage since the band was no longer playing and ordinary pop-music filled the bar.
Speakers pumped from every corner. Voices buffeted every wall. So turned around, she couldn’t discern which way led to the exit.
Her vision wavered as she spun in place. Where was the door? She couldn’t breathe. She was going to lose it if she didn’t get somewhere quiet soon.
“Do you have a stamp?” the little blonde girl called as Maggie stumbled back towards the pool table room.
Sheilagh frowned as she noted her distress. “Maggie? Are you okay?”
She nodded and rushed past the food line toward a back hall and what she hoped was an exit. A crowd gathered in a narrow corridor. Women waiting to use the restroom leaned into the wood paneled wall. Men filtered in and out of the door labeled LADS. The door at the end of the hall said PRIVATE. No exit in sight.
The walls closed in on her, and panic climbed through her like spiders. Strangers stared and whispered as she twisted, trying to go back the way she came but finding her getaway blocked. Shallow breaths left her lungs shortchanged as she frantically searched for an escape and resisted the urge to scream.
Losing it, her fingers tunneled through her hair and found her scalp sweaty. More people piled into the lines at the bathrooms, and as a man exited the men’s room, she stumbled out of his way, sinking deeper into the narrow hall until her back hit the door labeled PRIVATE and it opened.
She pivoted and came face-to-face with familiar blue eyes.
“Maggie?”
Bewildered, she stared up at her neighbor as he held a box of commercial paper towels. What was his name? Her labored breathing lifted her chest.
Another man exited the men’s room and bumped her shoulder. Her neighbor frowned as she caught the wall, a tear jostling past her lashes.
“Hey, watch it,” her neighbor yelled at the drunk patron. He shoved the box to the floor and caught her elbow. “Are you drunk?”
She shook her head. Drunk would be so much better. “I can’t … breathe.”
He looked over her shoulder, searching the congested hallway. “Can’t breathe like you’re having an allergic reaction and I need to find an EpiPen, or can’t breathe like you’re having a panic attack?”
“Get me the fuck out of here,” she practically sobbed and he nodded, bolting into action.
Gripping her upper arm, he used his body as a shield between her and the crowd and barked out orders at the drunks standing in their way. “Move!”
Her short legs moved double-time to keep up with his longer strides as he towed her through the congested hall. People stared, but they were moving too fast for her to register their faces.
When they reached the pool table room, the heat from all the chaffing dishes of food hit her like a wall of steam. She drew back at the multiplied voices and screeching music.
Her neighbor cursed when he saw the swelling mob. “This way. I’ll get you out.”
He plucked a set of keys out of his pocket and pulled her down the hall toward the end of the bathroom line. Unlocking a nondescript wooden door, he pulled her inside.
When he shut the door behind them, her eyes adjusted to the dark. The music and voices muffled, her jagged breathing suddenly too loud as she drew in a shallow breath of stale air. Then she caught the clean scent of his clothes.
“Watch your step.” His hand lowered from her arm to her hand, and his fingers laced with hers. “There’s a flight of stairs.”
