My stomach drops and the few sips of coffee I managed feel like lead in my gut.
I shake my head in confusion, “Didn’t you just say she’s usually in California?”
Beaus shoves his hands down in his pockets, "Lauren hated her. She knew about our relationship, if you can really call it that.” He places a hand over his eyes and rubs his temples with his thumb and pointer finger, "After everything with Lauren, Tasha was the first person I called. I knew it would piss Lauren off, so that's what I did." His eyes open, and they’re a little wide, his brows slightly raised. I don't know how to feel about what he just told me.
"I thought you were happy to end things?" I ask confused and shocked he'd stoop so low as to use a woman to get back at an another.
He must read it on my face because he says, “It was incredibly petty, but I wanted to hurt Lauren. They protected her after she killed Ella. Everyone in L.A. sided with her. Tasha believed me, and I knew if Lauren learned about her arm candy straying, she would be pissed.”
"That woman, Tasha, probably has feelings for you, and you used her." I can’t believe I am standing up for the feelings of a woman that just treated me like dirt.
Beau’s hand slaps down on the counter, more loudly this time. I jump.
"I know it doesn't make sense to you. I just wanted to hurt her. I was pissed, I was fucking relieved but, I… I was still pissed.” He seems to be struggling with the right words. “I was a possession to Lauren, even in some ways to Tasha. My feelings never mattered, and neither did my loved ones or Ella. They were tools to manipulate me or punish me with. Why is it so wrong to use myself to punish Lauren?” He sighs, “I asked to stay with Tasha, but I didn’t ask to start up a relationship or sex. I just wanted a place to hide for a bit.” He staggers a bit, holding onto the counter as he finishes.
I struggle to gauge his mood. What I observe is all too familiar: the outbursts of anger, the stumbling about, the alcohol earlier today. I know this, and it terrifies me. I can't know for certain if he's had anything to drink, but the possibility of it makes me nervous.
I keep my phone in my hand and move across the studio, putting more space between us. Beau now falls in the category of men who've hurt me. My instincts tell me he's capable of more.
I fight to not let my fears take over and try not to compare Beau’s anger to Darryl’s delirious rage. I'm overly tired and stressed, and I am unable to separate the two.
"Okay, Beau. I get it," I try to stay calm and hope my words placate him.
He turns, and seeing me on the other side of my studio he questions, "Huh?" He takes a few steps closer to me. I counter his movements to maintain the distance. I have my phone clutched in my hand. "What are you doing?" He asks me.
"Nothing," I answer immediately. "It’s late. We can talk about this another time." I add, hoping he'll just go. He doesn’t move, and I begin shivering. I look down to see shudders run through me. It’s all too much to process. The alcohol, the memory it triggered, then Tasha, and now him here aggravated and intruding on my safe space. I begin to panic. I don’t know how to respond to all the stress. I want to leave, but this is my place and where else can I go?
My breathing picks up, and I can’t slow it. If I don’t get control I will find myself having a panic attack. I need him to leave. My movements feel jerky and slow. I motion for him to leave. My hands are sweaty. I feel cold. I feel the color draining from my face, and Beau responds to it.
"Sammy, are you okay?" He reaches out to me even though we are separated with my living room between us. He keeps his feet grounded but leans towards me. His brows furrowed in concern.
"I'm. Fine." I pant. I can't breathe. I feel a pressure on my chest. Why can my mind process what's happening to me yet do nothing to prevent it? "You need to go," I stammer around the words. I run my hand over my chest to sooth the tightening feeling. With the other I hold on to the back of the sofa. I bend over. My heart is skipping beats, and I’m not breathing. I’m going to die. Time slows to a crawl and every inhale feels like it lasts an eternity.
The dimly lit room softens around the edges, and I think I might pass out. I'm scared of everything. Dying, living, fainting; there are too many things to even comprehend. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to do this with him here.
I feel a warm palm on my back, and I flinch away from it. I curl into myself. I realize I'm sitting on the sofa I was just leaning over. I don’t know how I got here.
Beau’s deep, low voice counts backwards. The first number I register is one hundred and twenty-four. His tone is even. I take my first deep breath when he says seventy-nine. By the time he's at fifty, I start to sit up. He stops at thirty-three but continues to rub my back in slow steady circles.
Embarrassment hits me. I clear my throat, not sure if I should thank him or how to react in general.
His voice breaks the silence, "How long have you had panic attacks?"
"I don't get them often."
"That's not what I asked Samantha," He says gently.
I hang my head. "About five or six years." I don’t even know why they started. "So, sorry about that." I wave my hand around.
“It’s okay, Samantha. I’ve been there.”
My head tilts, and I look over to him, “You’ve been there, like you’ve have them before?”
His lip lifts at the corner, and his eye scrunches up, “Not something I like to admit, but I’ve had my fair share of anxiety. I don’t like crowds, but it wasn’t always that way. Laura isn’t the only reason I left California.”
I'm completely unprepared for his response. I’d never have imagined he would have anxiety.
"Beau, I don't have much experience with all this shit, but I'm pretty sure this isn't how it works." He takes a deep breath, preparing to speak. I stop him by holding up my hand. No matter what he's about to say, I don't want to hear it. "I don't think what I want and what you're willing to offer will work, and I don’t think this is good for either of us,” I fidget with the hem of my shirt, looking down at my lap. “I don't think our definitions of what more is are even close to being the same thing, and this whole thing proves I'm not ready to deal with...with...I don't know, people in general. Simple seems to be what works best for me.” My eyes remain fixed on my knees as I finish with, “Beau, this has been anything but simple."
