Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 62128 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 311(@200wpm)___ 249(@250wpm)___ 207(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62128 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 311(@200wpm)___ 249(@250wpm)___ 207(@300wpm)
I'm on the highway now, driving twenty over the speed limit.
“There's too many people,” she says, and I can hear her teeth chattering, her body going into full panic mode at being left alone in a strange, crowded place.
I’m going to fucking kill this guy.
“That's okay,” I say, taking the exit that will lead me to her. “I'm two minutes out. You don't have to move. I will find you. I promise.”
“I'm so sorry,” she says again.
My chest cracks at the apology. At the way she always apologizes anytime we've ever been in this situation.
“You've done nothing wrong,” I say, finding my way onto the patch of land that's working as a parking lot for the festival happening several yards away.
“I did,” she says. “It's my fault. I broke up with him and he left me here. He left me with no way to get out.”
Rage cuts into me, but I do my best to push that to the side.
I have one focus now and that's getting to her.
“I'm here,” I say, holding the phone to my ear as I pay the person at the gate so I can go through.
The live music is six times louder now that I'm here, and the breath stalls in my lungs as I look out at the massive amount of people who are dancing and jumping to the band that's playing on a stage I can barely even see because I'm so far back.
For a fleeting second, I wonder how the fuck I'm going to find her in this packed crowd, but I know there's no other option.
She needs me.
I scan the place for landmarks. “Monroe, can you tell me what's closest to you?” I ask, having to practically shout now to be heard. “I'm seeing a lot of different things, like a few vendor tents, and big colored lights positioned at the edge of the crowd.”
“I'm close to the pink light,” she says.
I immediately move that direction, shoving people out of my way in order to get through the crowd. I get called a lot of names, but I don't give a fuck.
Relief barrels down my spine when I set eyes on her only a few feet away. I hang up the phone, pocketing it as I shove through the last few people in my way.
“Monroe,” I say, my hands immediately going to her cheeks, my thumbs wiping away the tears that are rolling down them. “I'm here.”
Her face crumples as she shoves her phone into her pocket before gripping my forearms, crying harder. “I'm so sorry.”
I draw her to me, holding her against my chest for a few seconds before I gently nudge her away again, catching her gaze. “I've got you,” I reassure her. “I've got you, okay?”
She nods a little too rapidly, and I can still see the effects of the panic attack clinging to her body. Not only because of the tears or her shallow breaths but the way her body is trembling as if we're in a dead winter, not the beginning of summer.
I hold her close, not letting one inch of her away from me as I navigate our way back through the crowd, shoving people out of my way as needed when they won't move.
It takes me a few minutes to get us clear of the massive crowd of bodies, and five more minutes to make it to my car. I open the passenger side door and settle Monroe in there before hurrying over to my side and immediately retaking her hands the minute I'm in.
“Let's breathe together,” I say, having done this multiple times throughout our lives.
She nods, her trembling grip on my hands squeezing tight, her rich dark eyes locked onto mine.
I take a deep breath, holding it for four seconds before slowly releasing it, and another wave of relief crashes through me as she mimics me.
We do it again, and again, until I've lost count of how many times.
My car is blocking out most of the sound, leaving it quiet in here save for our breathing. And I swear I can sense the moment the attack passes, her muscles relaxing, her trembling all but coming to a stop, and one of her exhales like a sense of closure.
“I'm sorry,” she says again, resting her head against the headrest now that she's grounded.
“You have to stop saying that,” I say. “There’s nothing to apologize for, you know that. I'm always here for you.”
“I know,” she says. “I just hate that I can't control…those reactions.”
“No one can control those things,” I remind her.
Her therapist had told her as much when she’d been going weekly throughout her teens when the panic attacks mounted any time she was in a crowd. She'd come so far since then and had managed to go months at a time without having a panic attack, doing her best to avoid certain situations that would trigger them or work on techniques to help lessen their duration if they did happen. No one would ever guess because she’s a full extrovert most of the time, but there’s no avoiding trauma like she experienced.