Page 68 of The Has-Been

Physical triggers, situational, PTSD, stress. And she’s definitely had plenty of stress tonight.

Her eyes finally find mine, tears glistening in them. Stroking my thumb over her cheek, I try to coax her, knowing that having an anchor can pull you out of it.

I take a deep breath in, “Take a breath.” I demonstrate, urging her to follow my instruction. She takes one in and out with me.

Then another.

And another.

I smile. “And blow it out,” I instruct as we both exhale one last time, her breathing now steady.

Footsteps approach us, and I quickly rise. Aubrey stays seated, still staring out the window of the ER’s waiting room.

“THANK YOU!” a voice bellows out as a middle-aged woman approaches. I assume it’s Tatum’s mother coming to update us.

She continues to thank us several times, explaining that he’s expected to be fine. Just a concussion from hitting his head on the ice, but thankfully, no open wound to his head or any injuries to his neck.

I don’t intend to be rude, but as soon as I learn he’s alright, my attention is anywhere but on her. The only person holding my attention now is Aubrey, who sits in the parlor, staring ahead like she’s seen a ghost.

When Tatum’s mother thanks us one last time before we say our goodbyes, I tell her to give Tatum my best wishes.

Aubrey doesn’t say anything—still frozen in silence.

“Aubrey,” I call.

She flinches, like she’s being awakened from a nightmare. She doesn’t move at first, and I’m growing increasingly concerned. I lean forward, clutching both her shoulders as I inch closer.

I can’t help but notice how near we are, that the last time we were this close was over a year ago, when she pressed our final kiss to my lips, and I hadn’t even known it’d be the last.

The hundreds of kisses and moments spent together are all but a memory now.

“Aubrey, he’s alright.”

I figure maybe she’s just in shock about what happened. It was definitely scary, as we weren’t certain of the depths of his injury. But she heard Tatum’s mother say he’s going to be alright. It could have been so much worse; we should be relieved.

The muscles in my jaw twitch, and she looks at me—her pupils blown wide.

What is happening to her?

She blinks.

Once. Twice.

Then, in a whirlwind, she’s sprinting out of the ER and back to my Jeep.

I try talking to her before I drive her home, but she’s only staring out the window. She doesn’t even flinch away when I try tapping her shoulder.

Now, I’m starting to freak out a bit.

I try everything to bring her back to me.

First, I offer to stop at Lover’s and get her a burger, her favorite place to eat, but she shakes her head. Then I turn on her favorite song, the one she can’t help but sing along to: “Sparks” by Coldplay.

She doesn’t sing a word.

I crack a soft smile as I turn the A/C on full blast. It’s three days before Thanksgiving in northernmost Michigan, so that means we’re well into freezing temperatures. I know just how much Aubrey hates being cold, thinking she’ll at least crack and start calling me a dumbass for having the A/C on this time of year.

I let the cool temperature take over the car, but she doesn’t react.