Page 138 of Neap & Spring

And Vivienne is frozen.

She’s staring at the sauce in her hand, but I don’t think she’s seeing it anymore. I don’t think she’s here at all. Her chest is rising and falling too fast, her breathing shallow and rapid, each breath shorter than the last.

“Vivienne.” I step toward her, abandoning my station. “Hey.”

She tries to ladle the sauce but her hand jerks and it spills across the counter instead of the plate.

“Fuck,” she whispers. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

She reaches for a towel to clean it up, but her hands won’t cooperate. The ladle clatters to the counter, the sound adding to the loudness.

“I can do this,” she forces out, but she’s gasping now, each word coming out between desperate inhales. “I can. I just need —”

“Vivienne, look at me.”

She doesn’t look at me. She’s staring at the sauce, her hands vibrating. I watch her glance at the plates that still need to go out, and I can see the panic taking over.

Her whole body is trembling now.

“I’m sorry,” she chokes out. “I’m so sorry, I can’t — I can’t —”

“It’s okay.” I move closer, putting myself between her and the rest of the kitchen. “It’s okay, you’re okay.”

“I can’t breathe.” Her hand comes up to her chest, clutching at her dress. “Why can’t I breathe?”

She’s hyperventilating. Full-blown panic attack right here in the middle of service.

“Amara,” I call out, not taking my eyes off Vivienne. “Take over fourth course. Everything. Now.”

“On it, Chef.”

I reach for Vivienne’s shoulders. She flinches but doesn’t pull away.

“Come with me,” I whisper against her ear. “Right now.”

“I can’t leave, you need —”

“I need you to come with me. Now, Vivi. Please.”

I guide her toward the back door, my hand on her lower back. She’s stumbling, one hand still pressed to her chest like she’s trying to physically hold herself together.

The second we’re outside, away from the noise and heat and chaos, she falls apart.

She bends forward, hands on her knees, gasping for air that won’t come. Her whole body is shaking violently, and there are tears streaming down her face. She’s making these horrible choking sounds as she tries to breathe.

“I’m sorry,” she sobs, the words barely intelligible. “I’m so sorry, I ruined — I can’t — I’m so sorry —”

“Vivienne.” I crouch down beside her, one hand on her back, feeling her spine trembling under my palm. “Listen to me. You need to breathe.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes you can. Look at me.” I wait until her eyes find mine. They’re wild and unfocused. “Breathe with me. In through your nose.”

I demonstrate, taking a slow breath in.

She tries. It comes out as a gasp.

“That’s okay. Try again. In through your nose, hold it, out through your mouth.”