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For the next hour, Noah was laser-focused on shaping the clay for his mask. When he finally got the clay how he wanted it, he coated it with petroleum jelly to keep the papier-mache from sticking. And then came the messy part—dipping strips of blue shop paper towels into a gooey mixture of plaster, school glue, and vinegar to make what would become the actual mask.
Sitting next to him again as he worked on his own mask, Mo showed Noah how to use small bits of paper towel to make textures, lines, and other details, so Noah used that knowledge to make the left half of the mask rough, where the skin on the right was smooth and unwrinkled.
As Noah worked, twin reactions coursed through him. On the one hand, he was almost enjoying the feeling of doing something, of being productive, of being able to concentrate. On the other, the more and more this mask started to come to life—with the left side of the face so utterly wrecked and broken, the more those panic attack symptoms started making themselves known again.
His chest went tight as his heart raced. His scalp prickled as it got harder to breathe. Tension settled into his muscles until he was a rubber band pulled taut and ready to break.
Because it was like looking into that fucking bathroom mirror—and actually seeing what he’d been feeling for all these long months.
Suddenly, the room closed in on him and there wasn’t enough air. Noah reared back off his stool and stumbled into the table behind him. And then he scrambled for the door. All he knew was the urgent need to escape, to pull in a deep fucking breath.
As opposed to earlier, the halls were busy with people browsing the studios and studying the displays, and it left him feeling trapped.
He turned—
The bathroom.
He shot into the men’s room and paced, his fists tight, his adrenaline on overload, his head all wrecked again.
God, when would he ever get control of this? Of himself? When would he ever get to his new version of normal? And would it be a version with which he could live? Because this was fucking miserable.
He stalked. Paced. Growled his frustration.
Fuck! I have to let this out before it eats me alive.
He turned, targeted the paper towel dispenser, and reared back his fist.
Someone grabbed his arm and hauled him around.
Mo.
“What the fuck?” Noah yelled.
Completely unfazed by Noah’s aggression, Mo shook his head. “Abusing yourself ain’t gonna help you none, son. But I know what will.”
Noah glared, his hands fisted, his body still jangling with all this bullshit. “Why do you care?” he bit out, knowing he was being an asshole but unable to rein it in.
“Because I’ve been right where you are,” Mo said. “Why else you think I’d be here making another fucking mask?” The question was serious, but there was a hint of humor around the man’s eyes. But then they went solemn. “You ever feel like the only way you’d feel better is if you could destroy everything around you?”
Taken aback by the insightfulness of the question, Noah could only stare.
“Ever pull some stupid-ass move like punching a wall?” Mo asked, pointing to Noah’s beat-up knuckles. “But it makes you feel a shit ton better afterward.”
“Yeah,” Noah said, his voice gravelly.
“That’s what I thought,” the big man said. “What you’re doing here, in this class, it will help you. But if you don’t have any plans tonight, then you should come out with me and meet some of my friends. Guys I suspect are just like you.”
“Just like me?” Noah asked, frowning.
Mo nodded. “Yeah. Guys with anger and transition problems. Guys for whom fighting and training provide exactly the kind of outlet and therapy they need to deal with those problems.”
Some of Noah’s angst bled away. “There’s therapy like that?”
“Yeah there is,” Mo said. “It’s called Warrior Fight Club.”
Chapter Sixteen
Noah couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually looked forward to doing something. Dressed in his workout gear, he stepped out of his apartment psyched to meet up with Mo to check out this Warrior Fight Club.
