Webb leaned over the table, and his green eyes narrowed the same way mine did when I was at the end of my patience. “Look, I know you’re not feeling sociable these days, Knox. And that’s—ugh.” He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “You know, I could kill you for putting me in the position where I’m the one trying to get you to talk about your feelings, right?”
“Then you could justnot. That would work well for me.”
“Nope. Em said it had to be either me or Drew, and he’d probably make you do sun salutations and smoke weed first, so.” He sucked in a breath like he was preparing to dive underwater. “You’ve gotta stop holing up in the office all damn day every day. Now you’ve got poor Gage doing it, too, and it’s not healthy for either of you. Okay? I’m worried.We’reworried.”
“You don’t have to worry aboutpoorGoodman,” I scoffed. “Me doing something is more likely to make himnotdo it, and the kid is plenty well rested, too. He leaves his desk to eat literally fourteen times a day. And if he wants to go out, he can go. No one’s stopping him.”
Webb shook his head. “You’resoblind. He’s trying to make a good impression, Knox. He’s doing what you do.”
Yeah, right. “Has he complained to you?” I demanded. “About his work hours or… anything?”
“Anything? Like the way you alternately pretend he doesn’t exist and bite his head off? Don’t bother denying whatallof us have observed,” he said blandly when I shot him a look.
I shrugged. I wasn’t sure what he wanted me to say. I knew I wasn’t overly nice to Goodman—and, yes, on one or two occasions, I’d been downright curt—but the man wasobnoxiously flirty and knife-blade snarky and unprofessionally cheerful.
And drop-dead gorgeous, though that wasn’t something I blamed him for.
Much.
In any case, assholery was the best defense, because otherwise…
“No,” Webb continued, plainly exasperated. “Gage hasn’t said a word to me. But then, he doesn’t strike me as that kind of guy.”
I shrugged again. The man-child was perfectly capable of complaining tomeabout all sorts of shit, but I supposed Webb was right. Goodman didn’t seem the type to tattle. Why should he when it was so much more effective for him to just give me an angelic look and then spout off for twenty-two minutes and twelve seconds (of course I’d timed him; it was either that orlistento him) about which cover of “Landslide” best captured the essential pain of the original, while I contemplated the many, many pleasurable ways I could shut him up?
It had been years and years since I’d wanted something with an all-consuming passion, and longer still since I’d wanted someonethat badly, and the whole thing set me off-balance. I wasn’t entirely sure whether I wanted to wipe the smile off his lips with my own or just sit beside him and bask in his presence like he was sunshine—and, Jesus Christ, that right there was a more flowery sentiment than I’d expressed about anything in over a decade.
I hated thecompulsionof him. The way he’d swooped in and taken up rent-free space in my head within seconds for no good reason whatsoever. My inability to swiftly evict him felt like a sign of my weakened mental state.
One more sign I wasn’t in control.
Rick and my colleagues at Bormon Klein Jacovic would laugh their asses off if they ever got wind that their steady-handed head investment auditor had turned into a caricature of a middle-aged man going through a midlife crisis, behaving like a moody-assed teenager over a man nearly half his age.
Webb cleared his throat, and I startled guiltily. I hadn’t been paying attention.
Goodman’s wandering brain was infectious.
“Knox, I know it hasn’t been easy for you, moving back here. And I know you like to pretend you’re invincible, so it’s hard for you to wrap your mind around the fact that you have certain…” He broke off as Katey came over and deposited two giant plastic cups of ice water and a couple of menus on the table, then continued. “…certain health issues?—”
“Panic attacks, Webb,” I interjected. “That’s all. Mental bullshit. Not cancer, okay? I’m not dying here.”
But even as I said it, I remembered how I’d felt the first time I’d had one. The sickening lurch in my stomach, the iron band around my chest, the feeling that I was endlessly falling—through the floors of the building, through the sidewalk, through the entire earth, and out into the stratosphere on the other side—and no force on earth, especially me, could stop it.
It hadfeltlike I imagined dying might.
“You ended up in the ER twice.” Webb toyed with his straw wrapper, an uncharacteristic show of nerves.
“The first time was a massive overreaction because my coworkers thought it was… something else.” I waved a hand, dismissing my colleagues’ heart attack concerns. “And the second time, it was because my dumb ass hyperventilated, passed out, and concussed myself. But there was zero blood, and they discharged me almost immediately. And now I have a therapist and good coping mechanisms, so I’m good.”
All is well with me. Or it would be, anyway. I was making sure of it.
“Right. Yeah. I’m not sure why I’m making such a big deal about your silly little panic attacks andconcussion.” Webb huffed out a breath like he was trying to remember where he’d put his patience. “Have you slept a full night yet?”
I set my jaw. No, I had not.Yet. But that was only because things were still so up in the air.
Obviously, I understood my brother’s concern. Dr. Travers said my panic attacks were probably triggered by my “stressful environment”—the bustling city, the constant work and too little sleep—which meant sleep was a priority, but every medication and supplement I’d tried left me groggy. Sometimes I felt like I was locked in a delightful little catch-22, where sleeplessness amped up my anxiety, and my anxiety made it difficult to sleep.
But I also wasn’t going to say that, because then Webb would ask how often I had telehealth visits with Dr. Travers, and whether I’d been honest with the doctor about my sleep issues, and he probably wouldn’t understand if I explained that I was handling things just fine.
