He doesn’t say anything, he just listens. If he only knew about the reporters that camped outside that very door after Jumbotron-gate.
“And now—” I stop, because finishing that sentence feels like admitting too much. I went through something that showed me most people’s memories do indeed have an expiration date. People will move on from one dumpster fire in the media to another, and swiftly; however, I don’t know how I feel about the fact someone could connect the dots, pull up old articles, remember the Kiss Cam disaster and the viral humiliation and?—
“Hey.” Sawyer’s voice cuts through the spiral. “Hold on. Take a breath.”
As he says the words, I realize I’m not breathing. I haven’t been. My chest is tight and my vision’s fuzzing at the edges and?—
“Juliette.” Charlie’s beside me now, hand on my shoulder. “Sit down.”
“I’m fine,” I lie.
“You’re not fine,” Charlie says gently. “You’re pushing yourself into a panic attack again, and you don’t want Theo to witness it. It’s okay, we just need to calm your nervous system.”
I sink onto the stool behind the counter, head in my hands, taking measured breaths in and out.
Sawyer stands in front of me, looking like he's been punched. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” I manage.
“It kind of is.” He’s quiet for a long moment before he speaks again. “What do you need?”
The question catches me off guard.
“What do I need?” I repeat.
“Yeah. Right now. What would help?”
I stare at him as Charlie rubs my shoulders. At this man who showed up with coffee and good intentions, but has now accidentally shoved my carefully controlled life into the path of a spotlight I’ve spent three years avoiding.
“I need you to make sure that doesn’t happen again. Not without me knowing first.”
“Done,” he says immediately. “I’ll call the team right now. I’ll tell them any press has to go through you or Charlie. No exceptions.”
I want to believe him. Oh boy, I want to believe him. But I’ve learned the hard way that good intentions don’t stop the world from spinning out of control.
“Okay,” I say quietly.
Sawyer pulls out his phone, already dialing. He steps toward the door, giving me space, his voice low as he starts talking to someone on the other end.
Charlie crouches beside me. “You okay?”
“No,” I admit.
“Fair.” He pauses for a beat. “You want me to tell him to leave?”
I look at Sawyer’s back. At the tension in his shoulders. The way he gestures emphatically, clearly arguing with whoever’s on the phone. I should be honored that he’s fighting for me, for the store, but the embarrassment of a near panic attack on his first day with us is starting to crowd that thought out.
“No,” I say finally. “Not yet.”
“But maybe eventually?”
I close my eyes. “I don’t know.”
And that’s the scariest part. Because for a few minutes there—standing with him, reviewing paperwork, letting myself imagine that maybe this could actually help—I’d let my guard down.
I’d let myself hope.
And hope, I’ve learned, is the most dangerous thing of all.
