Page 137 of One Wild Wish

“I should have, right away, but I was hoping to clear things up on this trip. Hoped I could tell you the divorce was final.”

Her distrust was palpable, red blotches dotting her neck. Moisture glazed her beautiful eyes. It hurt worse than Caroline’s disdain at Tessa’s office and hearing Tessa’s lies. I should be making Ainsley smile, not causing her pain, tossing roadblocks in our way. And there was still one left to wedge between us. A massive boulder. But the second I opened my mouth to explain how bad things were for me, a tear slipped down Ainsley’s cheek.

Startled, she dashed it away. “God, I don’t know why I’m crying. I’m really not that girl. It’s just…” She fanned her face. “I think I need some air.”

“Oh, doll. No.” Unsure what to do, I pulled her into my chest. “It’s over with her. I promise. On my life. Please, don’t worry.”

But she would. Worse than this if she got wind of the slander I’d been dodging. I couldn’t risk it. Not this early. Not after Caroline’s venomous insults and Tessa’s newest antics. As long as Ainsley knew the facts, the truths of my divorce—that it existed, and that it was challenging—was all that mattered. The rest was fabrication, distortion. Lies that would be meaningless when our papers were finally signed.

Ainsley pressed her face into me, and wetness coated my T-shirt. She used it to wipe her nose. She could use me as her own personal Kleenex, for all I cared. Anything to make her feel better.

“Air,” she said again. “I’m fine. I really am. I just need air.”

I stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head. “Sure. We can talk about it after.”

Releasing her, I took two steps and yanked on the knob. The door didn’t budge. I gave it another hard pull. Nothing. Frowning, I gripped the damn thing with both hands and jerked with all my might. It moved a millimeter and jammed. “Fuck.”

I examined the edge, bending down to feel the warp of the floor, the slight upward slope preventing the door from moving.

“Owen…” Ainsley croaked my name, her voice dripping with distress. I whipped around to find her breathing harder, pure fear on her face. “Why isn’t the door open?”

That’s when I remembered her claustrophobia.

13

Eight letters for a device used to increase the static pressure of fluid passing through a system.

Or a boyfriend who shares a humiliating story to distract you from certain death.

D I F F U S E R

Ainsley

The walls inched closer, the temperature in the shrinking space skyrocketing. Moments ago I’d been fine. Better than fine, about to experience an oh-my-God-yes-yes-yes with Owen’s hands on my body. Not through a battery-operated bunny or discovering a vintage Oscar de la Renta accidentally marked down. My construction hunk’s sinful lips had been on my skin, my legs around his waist.

Now I was seconds from hyperventilating.

Owen held up his hands as though I were a rabid dog. “It’s okay. We’ll get out of here. It’s just stuck. I’ll get it open.”

I pulled at my T-shirt’s neckline and forced a swallow. “Okay.”

But I wasn’t. Not by a long shot.

His lie by omission still hung in the oppressive air, and there was nothing rational about claustrophobia. No concrete reason I could be in this room one minute, no thought to the size of the space, and a second from a panic attack now. It wasn’t level-headed. Logic was no longer at play. It also didn’t change the facts that forcing air into my lungs was becoming a challenge.

“Hurry,” I managed.

His worried gaze darted over me like I was a stick of dynamite about to be lit, which sounded accurate. Swiveling, he began working furiously on the door. He kicked the bottom closed, yanked at it again. He studied its perimeter exhaustively. When that didn’t work, he turned with another fierce, “I’ll get you out of here,” then proceeded to pound on the Evil Door and shout for help.

Not promising.

I walked backward, until my butt hit the far wall. I slid down its length. There were rough-ins for a shower, toilet, and sink around me, electrical wires protruding from the walls. The unfinished floor undulated as my focus swayed. My heart had never beat so loudly, a steel drum pounding in my ears.

If I weren’t close to losing it, I’d probably come up with a fun crossword clue for the instrument, but losing it I was. My focus blurred as my mind tripped back to Chucky’s Chicken and me slamming my body and fists into the unmoving exit of the walk-in fridge. Laughter had assaulted my ears that day—coworkers taunting me with promises of freedom, only to be denied.

Trapped. Imprisoned. Suffocated.

Today there were no derisive slurs, only Owen’s increasingly frantic efforts and the dwindling oxygen powering my lungs. I’m going to die wearing sneakers and a tool belt.