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HE TOOK HIS MASKS WITH HIM
PRESENT
Does a panic attack feel like a heart attack?
My Google search doesn’t comfort me the way I’d hoped it would as I hold my phone in my shaking hands. The same hands that’d been gripping the steering wheel in a frenzied moment where the edges of my vision faded to black, and my ribs felt like they were crushing my heart.
I don’t doubt that it was a panic attack, even if it felt like I wasn’t breathing and I was going to die at any second.
Years of pretending to be a rock for everyone else is shattering any strength I have to get through each day.
This morning had been a tough one, Penny opting for her dad to help get her ready instead of me. Which meant he now couldn’t pick them up from school because he didn’t like to go into work late and then leave early.
But it wasn’t too much to ask that of me. Of course not.
So now, I’m sitting in my car before my lunch with my business partner, and I’m dreading having to face my five-year-old in a few hours.
Which leads to me having a panic attack as my world starts to fall into itself.
I used to be her favorite, back when she had more baby fat on her face and her little fingers would grip mine like she never wanted to let me go.
Just like I’d been gripping the steering wheel as I reminded myself to breathe.
A knock on my driver side window makes me jump.
“Get your ass outta the car. I’m starving,” Miley says before trying to open my locked door. I sigh and tuck my phone into my Prada tote that Peter got for me on my birthday.
Another fucking trigger.
Who the fuck has a panic attack because they’re terrified of their five-year-old?
I open my car door and when Miley hugs me, I try not to roll my eyes.
“This isn’t a thing we’re starting because you think I’m depressed, right?” I ask into her hair, letting myself sag into her just a little.
“Shut up. I’ve missed you.” Her words are muffled and she’s the only woman I know who comes close to my height, even if it’s only due to her impressive shoe collection.
“Are you sick of Sam?” I ask, making a joke at the expense of her boyfriend. It’s a term I never thought I’d use with Miley.
“Sosick of him,” she says as she pulls back, a large grin on her face.
“Right,” I respond as we walk inside one of our favorite restaurants. “You’re in the honeymoon phase. Stay there. It’s a great place to be.”
“Ah, ah,” she tells me, holding her finger up, “If there’s no wedding, there won’t be a honeymoon.” She tucks her platinum blonde hair behind her ear, and I smirk at the way she squares her shoulders at the thought of matrimony.
“Is he still asking?”
She nods just as the hostess comes over, and I give her the name of the reservation.
“Sabrina Milas, table for two.”
The woman in front of us nods and tells us to follow her.
“Are you still saying no?” I ask as we make our way to our table, my tone hushed to avoid interrupting the others lunching.
“I don’t understand why he’d want to try again,” she mutters, a frown on her face as she tilts her head to the side to answer me. She’s got her clutch tucked between her elbow and ribs and her turquois silk skirt looks like it was made for her.
“Call it theMiley Effect, I suppose,” I say. We stop in front of a table and the hostess asks if it’s okay. “Certainly.”
