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He sounds like he’s suffocating. Like he might kill me for making the suggestion. “Jesus, Em. Just—”
The door to the gallery swings open. It doesn’t make any noise, but Sinclair does. “Let go of him.”
For a single instant, I think Sin’s talking to me. Coming tome.Good. I’m finally the one he’ll tackle.
But…no. I’m not the one holding on. I’m not the one with any kind of problem to be solved.
“Emerson. Let go.” Sinclair doesn’t give Em any time to release his grip. He just drags him away from me, turns him sideways, and throws his arms around him in a half-tackle, half-hug.
Emerson sucks in a breath and pushes hard at Sinclair, who doubles down on the hug. I shake out my clothes and try to look less like a useless bastard. A jealousbastard.
Jealous of what? Not Emerson. He’s struggling to breathe. His chest is moving too fast. Too shallow. Every breath sounds pinched, like he’s taking it through a straw. Concentration darkens his face. Frustration. His hands go up and hook around Sin’s forearm. It looks like he’s trying to pull Sin’s arm away, but he’s not. He’s pushing it toward him with more force. I should have done this already. Should have batted his fists away from my sweatshirt and done the only thing that ever helps.
“Can’t get it to stop,” Emerson says.
Fresh guilt constricts my throat. It hurts more to see now that he’s had a stretch of good months. He even made it through his wedding. Through the weeks of intense planning and practice to the ceremony and reception. But what our childhood did to his mind is always waiting for a chance to fuck him up again. I’m responsible for it as much as our bastard of a father.
“It’s all right, Em.” Sin catches my eye. His expression is calm, like he’s not giving a bone-crushing hug to a man who’s going to drown with his head fully above water. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
I’ve been fine for a long, long time.
“If it doesn’t stop, we’ll wait with you,” Sinclair announces to Emerson. There’s no way to head off what’s already happening. Is there? “Where’s Daphne?”
Her absence punches dread into my gut. It’s bad fucking news if Emerson’s hiding it from his wife. He doesn’t hide anything from her.
It’s especially bad if he’s spiraling here. Emerson almost never has panic attacks inside his house. It’s when he leaves that things get tenuous.
Emerson grits his teeth. Forces a deeper breath. “Asleep.”
Sinclair waits a few beats. Readjusts his grip around Emerson’s shoulders.
My mind replays other, older memories.
Sin, tackling Emerson away from a cracked curb, their bodies going down hard on concrete while traffic went by at forty miles an hour. Sin, blocking the front door of a crumbling split-level while Emerson fought him with everything he had. A surprising amount, given how long he’d been locked in the closet.You can’t go out there, Em. I know. I know.Sin, both palms on Emerson’s chest, pushing him into the brick facade of a building one and a half blocks from the apartment we lived in after we left home.I can’t do this.Emerson’s voice, agonized.I can’t. I’m done. I can’t.
“Did she paint today?” Sin’s casual about the question, like Emerson’s not fighting. He’s not trying to get free. He’s trying to stop the full-body tremors that go along with the worst of his panic.
It looks more painful than getting punched in the face.
Emerson doesn’t answer. What I can see of his expression has gone absent. His body claws for air. His mind is somewhere else.
“I noticed the new piece, by the way. Another great one. I see why you didn’t sell it. I especially like what she’s done with the light on the water. Makes you wonder if it’s dawn or dusk.” I turn my head and find that Sin’s talking about the painting on the wall behind me, just visible in the moonlight. Something real to use as an anchor. A waypoint out of the imagined galleries Emerson sometimes disappears into during panic attacks. I wonder if Sin learned this trick from Daphne, or if I’m the only one who didn’t know. “It’s okay, Em. Completely safe. You can come back if you want.”
Sin holds tighter. Waits some more. Waits fucking forever.
I’m about to ask him whether he thinks this will get worse when Emerson’s grip on Sin’s arm loosens. Some of the tension in his shoulders releases. Thank fuck. It’s almost over. Or Sinclair actually managed to help him hold it off.
“Okay.” Emerson gasps a breath. “Okay. Fuck.”
Sin takes him over to the sitting area in the center of the room. He nods at one of the chairs, and I take it. Then he pushes Emerson onto the couch and takes the spot next to him, one hand on his shoulder.
Emerson sits at the edge of the cushions, his hands over his face. They’re still trembling. I’ve seen him this way lots of times. Not as much as Sin, though.
“I’m sorry,” Emerson says to the room at large. “It’s late.”
“Is Daphne okay?” Sin asks.
