Page 101 of The False Flat

I contemplated getting up and taking a moonlit ride, but blood wasn’t reaching my head. I wasn’t sure my head was still attached to my shoulders, and I didn’t trust myself to stand up, let alone get on my bicycle.

Grant’s hand was on my back. I thought his hand was on my back.

“Penelope?” His voice was far away as I shrank inside my skin, all moisture in my mouth evaporating into the night.

I tried to force myself upright, but my body wouldn’t move. I couldn’t control it. My tight lips, of their own accord, managed to whisper, “Sick. Drink. Give me . . . minute.” He must’ve heard because his hand was moving in slow circles on my back, returning me to my body, and he didn’t ask any more questions.

I was so hot, yet shivering, as I focused on Grant’s hand and its repetitive arc—right side, bottom, left side, top—as I tried to steady my breathing and pull up the concepts I’d read in Unwinding Anxiety, one of the books Hannah had recommended.

This is science. Defuse the trigger. Distract the mind.

This was a panic attack, and it would pass.

Right side, bottom, left side, top, I repeated in my head as I kept time with his hand.

The laughter somehow gained momentum, relentlessly beating against my eardrums.

This is a panic attack.

I’m not dying.

I’m not dying.

This will end.

I was breathing again. It was passing.

The laughter settled into a hum in the background. I lifted my head, made eye contact with Grant.

His jaw was tight.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his eyes boring into mine.

He knew. He knew where I was, in my head, in the past. With Brandon. And he wanted to protect me, but he didn’t know what to do. That was what that look was, pain. I was hurting him.

The story, Grant’s stomach bug, his understanding, the declaration of love. It was suddenly all too much. A little demon inside me chanted: Escape, retreat, bury. I rubbed my sweaty palms on my pants so fast they burned and then pushed to standing.

“I’m going to the bathroom. Then to bed.” I didn’t wait for a response but moved as fast as my unsteady legs would propel me.

Escape, retreat, bury.

Another roar of laughter made me jump, and I nearly sprinted the remaining twenty feet to the door, where two painted figures told me I’d made it to the camping facilities.

It took me nearly twenty minutes to compose myself enough to emerge from the bathroom, and I headed straight for our tent, which was large enough to accommodate the four of us. Inside, Deanna was already tucked into the sleeping bag to the right of mine, and Grant was sitting with his legs stretched out in front of him on top of his bag to the left.

Deanna propped up on her left arm. “Grant and I were giving you five more minutes before I came to make sure a bear hadn’t pulled you out of the bathroom and run off. They started the ghost stories out there, which was my cue to say adios.”

I couldn’t laugh. I managed a pathetic smile, but my face was numb; I wasn’t even sure the corners of my mouth had lifted. At least it was dark, and if I was lucky, they wouldn’t be able to see what my splotchy face was doing.

“Can’t hold my liquor, I guess.” It was far from the truth—I’d held my liquor better than I’d like to admit on a few too many nights—but the thought of telling them the real reason I’d had to rush to the bathroom risked me having to do it all over again.

“Pen, are you all right?” Deanna asked. Curse her empathy.

Grant covered for me. “She needs rest.”

Deanna opened her mouth, but as my eyes adjusted, I saw him give her a slight headshake. She didn’t ask any more questions. And I was very, very grateful.

Some part of me registered that I was overreacting, but how do you stop doing something you’ve always done?