“You never actually asked,” I retort dryly. “They’re 27 and 25. I was the ‘oh shit’ baby.”
The sound of Ryne’s laughter works its way through my body, soothing some of the areas that were flayed open during my shitstorm of a night. He follows up the laugh with one of his genuine, non-sarcastic smiles, and damn if it doesn’t make him even more handsome. His smile deepens into a grin and there’s a sparkle in his eyes that makes me want to lean over and kiss him.
“I don’t know which is worse, thinking I was dealing with a spoiled only child, or that I’m actually dealing with the spoiled baby of the family,” he teases. I roll my eyes and keep my reply inside. There’s silence for a moment and then Ryne speaks again. “So do y’all look alike? Blonde pompadour, mix of preppy and hipster clothing style, intense blue eyes that could bring a grown man to his knees?”
His description of me makes my stomach flutter. “Um, sort of? We look like we’re related at least. Milo’s got dirty blonde hair and blue eyes like me. He dresses fairly preppy but he’s got his nose and eyebrow pierced. Will has brown hair and brown eyes, mostly wears athletic stuff when he’s not working, and he’s straight-up walking swagger.” I minimize the messages app and pull up my photos folder, scrolling through until I find the one I’m looking for, and then turn my phone around to face Ryne. “This is from a couple of weeks before we moved. They’d both come back home to help us pack.”
His eyes widen slightly and I bite back a smirk when he puts a hand to his throat and rubs his Adam’s apple. I set my phone down and we dig into our food. When we’re almost finished, Opal graciously has one of her servers come by with new drinks and a piece of banana cream pie for each of us. Probably not smart of me to eat more sugar, but I do. It’s delicious, but not as delicious as the feeling of Ryne’s thigh pressed against mine. He has that habit of shaking his leg, and his right leg starts up as we sit here eating quietly.
Once I finish eating, I close my eyes and lean my head against the back of the booth. After a minute of continued silence and leg shaking, I reach over and place my hand on his knee. His leg stills and I start to pull away, but he reaches down and captures my hand beneath his, pressing my open palm back down. He laces his fingers over mine and moves our hands up to rest on his thigh. I swallow audibly and grab my drink. It’s cold and some bubbles slip through the straw and tickle my nose. He lets out a soft breath and opens his mouth to say something, when the door chimes ding, and a few seconds later we hear a shout of, “Yo, Sutton!” from the front entrance.
“Shit,” Ryne curses under his breath, drops my hand, and scoots away. Not so much it’s noticeable as a dramatic shift in position, but enough that we’re no longer touching. A chill shoots down my spine.
When Evan gets to the table and slides into the seat across from us, he looks surprised to see me beside Ryne. “Herschel! How’s it going?”
“Fine, you?” I don’t bother correcting the dumb nickname anymore and give him a clipped nod.
Nervous energy swirls in my stomach at Ryne’s obvious discomfort with PDA. I don’t like feeling like some kind of secret or like I’m not deserving of affection out in the open. Ryne starts shaking his leg again and my heart pounds in my throat. I can’t reach over and press down on his leg with Evan sitting here. Evan wouldn’t see, but I think Ryne would still jump out of his skin. The rapid vibration from the leg shaking fuels the frenetic pace of the anxiety crashing through me. I turn my head toward Ryne. His lips are moving but I don’t hear the words. I swivel my head over to Evan. He opens his mouth to speak but I interrupt.
“I gotta go.”
I don’t even have a vehicle to leave here in, but at this point, I just need out of this booth. I shove my phone into my messenger bag. My chest constricts and my breathing gets more and more shallow with each intake of air. The spots and pinpricks start popping up in the corners of my vision. I need air and I’ve got to get out of here before I lose it. I’ll scramble across Ryne’s lap and hightail it out of here if he doesn’t move out of the way.Please move, I silently beg him. I press one open palm to the tabletop and the other flat against the back of the booth seat. My sweaty palm leaves a damp print on the table when I move it again.
“I need to leave. My… mom needs… something.”
Ryne stares at me curiously and slides to the edge of the booth. Before he gets up he turns to me and asks in a quiet voice, “Are you okay?”
My eyes are wide and my voice catches in my throat, and he might not know what it is or why it’s there, but I sense the moment when he sees the panic on my face. Something clicks in his eyes. He quickly stands up and lets me out of the booth. I barely mutter a goodbye before I dash toward the exit door, to my escape; freedom is so close. Ryne says something to Evan but it’s all swept up in the buzzing hum of blood pounding in my ears.
Five more steps.
Three more steps.
One more step.
I make it to the door what feels like an eternity later, yank it open, and step out onto the sidewalk. By the grace of God, it’s deserted, so I step to the side in front of a brick pillar and hunch over, gasping. With my hands on my knees, I take in several gulps of air and try to calm my breathing. There’s still a vice squeezing my insides, so I rip off my open button-up shirt and throw it on the ground, all the while continuing to suck air. When a hand comes down on my shoulder my heart lurches and drops into my stomach.
“Dacen?”
Ryne repeats my name quietly and moves his hand to my back. There’s enough pressure for his touch to register but not so much as to give me the caged-in feeling that threatened to consume me in the booth. I close my eyes and concentrate on him. He rubs slow circles on my back, counterclockwise, and I try to match my breathing with the rhythm. A slow half-circle against my back is a slow breath in, and I exhale as his hand completes the circle. After a minute of this, my breathing is less frantic.
“Sorry, Ryne, I…” I whisper but don’t know how to complete my thought.
He squeezes my waist as I stand up straight, and I let him lead me by the elbow over to his truck. He unlocks and opens the driver's side door, gesturing to it. I wordlessly pull myself up and slide across the bench seat as he hoists himself in and shuts the door. Ryne pulls my messenger bag, which I hadn’t even noticed I’d forgotten, off his shoulder and sets it gently on the floorboard at my feet.
I close my eyes and lean my head back while he turns on the engine, and a few seconds later refreshingly cold air blasts from the vents, cooling my overheated skin. We sit in silence for a good three minutes. The air blowing over us feels amazing and my breathing slowly returns to normal. My forehead is clammy, my hairline is damp, and my t-shirt sticks to me in several places. It’s not uncommon for me to get overheated on the outside during a freak out; it’s a physical manifestation of my insides crashing and burning.
“Dacen?”
I pop open my eyes and turn toward Ryne, leaving the back of my head pressed firmly against the seat.
“Are you... can I...”
He doesn’t finish his sentence and instead sweeps his eyes over my face and body, silently assessing me. I shiver and press back against the seat. Now that I’ve cooled off, it’s chilly in a damp shirt. Ryne reaches to the console and turns down the air, and then wraps one of his strong arms around my shoulders.
“C’mere,” he whispers, drawing me to his side. My body is a limp noodle and easily slides over. “Don’t want you to get too cold in that sweaty shirt,” he explains nonchalantly as if this entire situation is totally normal to him. I’m unfortunately all too familiar with panic attacks and the related accompanying crap, but he continues to dole out the surprises.
“Thanks,” my voice catches in my throat, and I try again after clearing it. “Thanks, Ryne. For this.” I wave my hand toward the brick pillar, and then between the two of us. I’m mortified he witnessed it though.
