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I’d cracked some jokes. Bad ones. One was about farts. I’d made her laugh, and right then, I’d decided that making Rosie smile and laugh was the best thing in the world.
Fast forward six years, I turned eighteen, and after everything had turned to shit between us, I’d realised that was when I’d fallen in love with Rosie Zanetti.
The purest form of love: adoration, devotion. Her fiercest friend.
And then lost it all two weeks after I turned eighteen.
Hold on to that,my mind practically yelled.Remember how it all turned to shit!
Rosie let out another sob, pulling me from the memories, and fat tears rolled off her cheeks, her eyes wide, and I patted her back. She barely came up to my pecs.
“What happened?” I uttered. “What’s wrong?”
She took in a shuddering breath and shook her head.
“Who did this to you?” I pressed.
My hands tightened into fists on her back, and I forced them open and made slow circles over her back.
“No one,” she croaked. “Oh god …”
More tears soaked my jumper. I didn’t care. “Please. Tell me.”
“It … it was me.” Rosie squirmed in my arms, and I let her go, one hand on her elbow.
My eyes searched her face. “What was ‘you’?”
She blinked rapidly as if realising for the first time that it was me, Tom Turner, before her. “I left him. Oh god, what have I done?”
My jaw went slack.
Rosie’s shallow breaths got worse. “I can’t breathe.” Her hands flew to her throat.
“Hey, hey, look at me.”
Rosie’s cheeks and neck had turned bright red, not hearing me. I gently cupped her jaw. At my touch, she looked into my eyes and took a raspy breath. Her eyes were like the darkest whisky with flecks of gold.
“Deep breath in through your nose. That’s it, and now out; two, three, four through your mouth.”
I’d done the same with Stacey many times over the years as she recovered from her injuries, whether it was waking from a nightmare late in the night, or a panic attack at random times during the day.
It all came to me easily now, repeating the simple instructions to breathe over and over, holding her gaze, keeping my voice steady and low.
Sadness filled her eyes, rimmed red and glistening with tears.
Focusing on the five senses was a great way to bring heart rate down and help breathing become slower.
“What can you hear right now? Other than me?”
Rosie rapidly blinked. “That tractor song. ‘She Thinks My Tractor is Sexy’.”
I nodded, my lips curling up involuntarily. “Pete must be in charge of the playlist.” I cleared my throat. “Stay with me, deep breaths. What can you smell?”
Rosie closed her eyes and inhaled deeply again. “Your cologne. Shampoo.”
My thumbs paused against her cheeks. “What else?”
“Sausage rolls. Or pies. Pastry.”
