Like a flash, he steps away from me. “I’ll be right back.” Then he’s walking to the bathroom, closing the door. It’s silent. No footsteps, no shower, nothing.
My pulse ticks.
Then I follow him. I knock, wait, then think better of that andtry the handle. Unlocked, the door swings open, and when my eyes adjust to the dark, I freeze. Arthur is slumped over on the tile, his back against the wall, his head in his hands. His shoulders shake, and he has his elbows on his knees like he’s trying to keep the motion in.
“Arthur?” I whisper.
“One second.”
Both words are punctuated with breathless frustration, and I take a step closer. Mayhem has its own gravitational field, and I’ve never known how to stay back. “I’m coming in,” I say.
He doesn’t respond. Just keeps breathing loudly, in and out of his mouth, too fast. He’s breathing far too quickly for the oxygen to calm his system down.
I kneel by his side. When I put a hand on his shoulder, he shies from the touch, twisting toward the wall behind him.
“Don’t,” he says. “Please. Go.”
But I can’t. I can’t go. Not when he’d asked me last night to stay with him past our ending. It had felt real—it had been real.
My thoughts stop, suddenly understanding. Short, clipped sentences. Staggered, erratic breathing. Arthur is having a panic attack. He’d left so I wouldn’t see.
“You need to do something for me.” I grip his thick shoulder in my hand. “You have to breathe with me.”
“No.”
“Arthur.”
“Lilah—please.”
“I’m not leaving.”
His chest stills. Then he finally looks up, and his bloodshot eyes are miles away from the playful hazel I’m afraid that I adore.
“I did this. This is my fault. It’s been on me to protect you. But I—I got selfish. I took it too far.” He sounds broken, and I hate thatmost of all, that he’s this lovely and still breakable. “You can’t get close to me.”
“I’m okay. We’re going to be okay.”
“No, because, because you want to be invisible, you make these movies so you can be, and the team warned me, after that night in the club, that this wouldcrushyou. And I told myself it wouldn’t. I wanted to think it wouldn’t. But they were right. I’m going to hurt you, I was always going to hurt you, and now I have.”
“I’mokay,” I repeat.
“I never wanted this. I never—I want to be good for you.”
“I know, sweetheart. Please, can you breathe with me?”
Needing to break through his thoughts, I peel his hand from his knee and hold it to my chest, right over my sternum, then inhale a deep diaphragm breath. As I count to five, I keep staring into Arthur’s eyes. I don’t blink. I don’t dare. I can’t let him slip back into his panic, shutting me out. Intense emotions like this can make a person act erratically. I remember it too well, trapped in my skin, boiling alive.
But he doesn’t pull back. And when I get to five, Arthur starts to angle toward me, his rigid arm relaxing.
“What are you doing?” he says hoarsely.
“We’re breathing. It feels good.” I choose my words carefully; pointing out to someone that they’re having a panic attack isn’t exactly relaxing. “Breathe with me, Arthur. I dare you.”
A second ticks by. Then he inhales a noisy breath.
“Good. Hold it with me. We’re going to count for five.”
I count softly, one to two, three to four, as he looks at me. He doesn’t stop looking. Barely blinks. Slowly, his panic trickles away, revealing the desperation in his flushed face. When I get to five, I start back over at zero, and minutes pass just like that, me breathing, Arthur following, his gaze clinging to me. I shift us to breathingthrough our nose, taking a big, wheezy inhale as an example for him, and Arthur laughs. The broken chuckle grabs my heart and gives it a shake.
