Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I PRESS MY HANDS into both sides of the porcelain sink, cold water running down my cheeks like ice. Whew. Okay. Breathe.
You can breathe, Elliot.
That's the voice of my therapist, or my mom, or someone else who's talked me down from one of my many panic attacks over the years. I listen to it, 'cause it's right—I can breathe. It's just a matter of opening my lungs and letting the air in.
I shut my eyes, inhale deep into my diaphragm, then let it all out. When I open my eyes, I'm staring back at myself in the hotel bathroom mirror, the half-light creating a shadow along half my red face. Chatter from the room penetrates the door, but I block it out. It's fine. I can handle this.
I just never thought I'd see Lucy Pembroke in person ever again.
In my defence, I kept it pretty cool out there—I've learned how to smile at a camera and keep myself at least semi-poised during interviews, so when I saw her, and my brain registered it really was her, I pretended there was a camera on me. Don't look like an idiot in front of the camera, dumbass.
Now I'm alone and all the feelings are flooding in, over my head like saltwater. I keep myself grounded, focused on the cold porcelain under my palms.
If years of therapy have taught me anything, it's that I can't hide from things. Especially my emotions, and especially when they get intense. I need to face them, accept them, let them in.
But I don't even know how I feel right now. Just confused. 'Cause she looked like something out of a dream I thought I left behind.
I have to talk to her, right? We don't know each other anymore, but Lucy was a huge part of my life once. I can't pretend I never knew her. At the same time, I dread it. Sure, it's been years, but embarrassment still squeezes my throat, 'cause in the few short months Lucy knew me, she saw the absolute worst in me.
The image of shattered ceramic on the tile floor of my parents' kitchen makes my heart squeeze. My pulse begins to pound—the threat of another panic attack—so I take another deep breath, lock eyes with myself in the mirror, and hold it all together.
I've come a long way since then.
I can do this.
* * *
I wade through the crowded room of unfamiliar faces, limping with my crutches as I search for any sign of Lucy. Some people glance at me as I push through, and I keep a friendly face on, but God, I wish both my legs worked properly so I could hustle. There's still a good few weeks of healing before I'll get there.
That Nora girl is on stage at The Safe Way Home's setup, talking to a group of people. Lauren's at the front, jotting down notes on a pad. No sign of Lucy. Did she leave because of me? I hope not. If anything, I should leave, but now that I know we're in the same space, I have to talk to her. If I don't, I'll spiral and feel guilty, like I'm running from my past, when I'm not. Not anymore.
