Page 87 of Neap & Spring

I can see Neap & Spring up ahead, the lights warm and inviting through the windows.

Almost there.

But I don’t want this to end. I don’t want to go back to being the chef and his consultant where we have to keep a professional distance and I have to pretend I don’t think about her constantly every day. The thought feels like needles on my skin. I’d do anything to hold onto the easy closeness of today.

“Oh,” I say, trying for casualness but landing somewhere flustered and awkward. “Frannie mentioned something earlier about the collaborative dinner.”

Vivienne’s stride hitches slightly, and she looks at me, her eyes bright with interest. “Yeah? I love that she is helping with everything.”

“She loves this kind of stuff. Anyway, I guess she found a chef she thinks would be perfect. Big social media following, apparently.” I’m trying to remember the details Frannie had been so excited about this morning. She told me all about it while I was buried in morning prep and hadn’t had a single cup of coffee yet. “He’s on tour doing collaborations with smaller restaurants up and down the coast. She said it’s like exposure for them and content for him or something. I’m trying to remember the name. Something Voss? Stellan Voss, I think?”

Vivienne stops walking.

She shutters to a complete stop like someone has cut her power off mid-stride. One moment she’s beside me, and the next she’s standing deathly still in the middle of the sidewalk with both feet planted and her eyes somewhere far away.

Someone has to swerve around us, muttering a curse under his breath.

I stop too, taking a second to register what just happened before I turn back to look at her.

“You okay?”

She doesn’t answer right away. She’s looking at something ahead of us. Or through it, maybe. Like she’s seeing a different street entirely. Her face has gone pale, all the color draining out in a way that makes my stomach drop.

“Vivienne?”

Her hands are shaking. I can see them trembling where they’re clenched at her sides.

“I can’t —” Her voice comes out strangled and breathless. “Not him. We can’t — I can’t —”

Oh fuck. Oh no.

“Hey. Hey, it’s okay.” I step closer instinctively, reaching for her, but she takes a step back. Away from me.

No. Don’t pull away. Don’t shut down. Not now.

“Vivi, what’s wrong?”

She’s trying to breathe, but it’s coming in these short, painful gasps. Quick inhales that don’t seem to bring any air with them. She’s trying to gulp oxygen down like she’s drowning.

Panic attack. She’s having a panic attack.

Right here in the middle of Main Street. In front of the hardware store and the wine shop and half a dozen other people who are starting to notice.

“Vivienne. Look at me.” I try to keep my voice calm, even though panic is clawing up my own throat. “You’re okay. You’re safe. Just breathe.”

She shakes her head violently, eyes squeezed shut.

I look around quickly, looking for anything that might help. A woman walking a golden retriever has slowed almost to a stop, concern written all over her face. Two guys outside the hardware store are watching closely, not even pretending not to stare. Someone across the street has turned to look, phone already halfway to their ear like they’re considering calling for help.

Personally I don’t give a shit what any of them think. But Vivienne would hate this. She would rather dissolve into the sidewalk than have strangers watching her come apart on a public street. She’d rather disappear than be this vulnerable in front of people she doesn’t know. I know that about her the way I know the rest of her — without having to be told and without asking.

Fuck.

“Come on.” I take her hand. Her palm is clammy and her fingers are ice cold, but she doesn’t pull away, thank God. I guide her quickly down the street away from the crowd to the narrow alley beside the bookstore where delivery trucks unload. It’s more private and no one can see us here.

Once we’re out of view, tucked between brick walls and dumpsters, I turn to face her. She’s leaning against the wall now, one hand pressed flat to her chest like she’s trying to keep her heart from bursting through her ribs. She’s still trying to breathe and failing miserably.

This is bad. This is really bad.