Page 78 of Stuck with Me

Except she’s notmyanything.

But I want her to be. I want her to be my everything. It’s a selfish thought. One that I shouldn’t even allow myself to have. To evoke and concentrate on. To claim.

My breathing quickens the faster I walk, and I break out in a sweat. My chest tightens, feeling as if it’s caving in and my lungs constrict. I gulp in tiny frigid breaths. It’s as if a heavy weight is attached to my legs and it tugs me effortlessly to the ground as my limbs weaken.

It comes so fast. So unexpected. But in a matter of seconds, my anxious thoughts have spiraled and sent me into a full-fledged panic attack.

And I am all alone.

With my knees in the snow, an unbearable heat coils in my chest and shoots through my veins. I claw at the zipper of my jacket at my neck with feeble fingers and yank it down. A rush of cool air hits my body with an inviting relief. But it’s not enough. I tear my beanie off my head and next, I struggle to free my hands from the thick gloves.

All the while my heart thrums against my ribcage relentlessly. My head goes dizzy, and my limbs grow faint. My eyes water and wild thoughts of dying erupt sporadically in my brain. Even though I know this will not kill me. I almost wish it would, if nothing else, to save me from experiencing this again.

And then I think of Rosie. The sound of her soothing voice. The pressure of her hands on my skin. The comfort in her dark brown eyes—the color of Kit-Kat’s.

Kit-Kat.MyKit-Kat.

I shut my eyes tight and fight to inhale a breath through my nose and hold it for three seconds before exhaling it fully through my mouth. I do it again. This time, finding it a bit easier to inhale. I follow the steps Rosie taught me again. It’s her voice I hear in my ears while I do this enough times until my heart stops thrashing in my chest.

I open my damp eyes and blink. My pulse is still quick, but finally the cold wind hits my body and sends a shiver shooting down my back. My breathing is evening out slowly. A few birds fly over my head from treetop to treetop and I swipe the wetness from my eyes.

My brain catches up to my body and they seem to be working together once again and not playing against each other. Which is exactly how it feels when I have a panic attack.

My legs finally feel the iciness of the snow. My pants are soaked up to my thighs. But I don’t jump up right away. I stuff my beanie back on my head and shove my trembling fingers into my gloves.

When I do finally stand on wobbly legs, they feel like cooked spaghetti noodles. I hate the feeling after the panic attack. Possibly more than the attack itself. It makes me feel weak.

I rub at the beanie on my head and turn back and forth before spinning in a one-eighty. Glancing around, I feel disoriented. My heart jumps into my throat. The bite in the air goes straight through my gloves so I stuff them into the pockets of my jacket. My fingers find something in my pocket, and I pull it out.

The compass.

I run my thumb across the face of it and my heart settles in my chest. My eyes find my tracks in the snow, and I follow them as they take me back the way I came. I return the compass to my pocket, but I don’t let go of it from my grip. Even though I know my way back to the cabin, I hold the compass like a consolation.

As the wooden structure comes into view, smoke bellows from the chimney, and anticipation throbs inside my entire body. The iciness has traveled up my legs and the cold wraps around my torso. It doesn’t help that my pants are soaked. The only thing that keeps me moving forward is the thought of a hot bath now that the water tank has had a chance to heat back up.

But when I get closer, I see two more vehicles parked next to Rosie’s. One is a Jeep and the other is Designated Dean’s rig. The bubble that Rosie and I have been living in the past three days pops. Annoyance stirs in my gut without warrant.

This was the plan all along. For her friends to come. So I shouldn’t be irritated. But I am.

I suddenly feel possessive over our alone time. Possessive overher.

And that doesn’t sit well with me.

I take the old wooden steps slowly and stop on the porch. The lights inside glow as the sun almost dips below the horizon. Rosie is sitting on the kitchen counter, her head flung back in laughter. There’s a cute blonde near her with a glass in her hand and a bright smile. The Christmas lights on the tree twinkle and it sends a pang of nostalgia in my chest. It forces my brain to think of home. Of family. Of Granddad.

And all I want is to be alone.

Instead of entering the cabin and heading straight for the bottle of whiskey, I pick up the axe. It’s the next best thing as a form of therapy I can think of. And it’s gotta be healthier than alcohol.

Despite the threat of hypothermia or frostbite, I set a wood log onto the chopping block and swing the axe down with as much power as I can muster. The way the blade slices through the wood with ease causes satisfaction to trickle through my veins.

I do this over and over and over. Repeating the act of setting a log onto the chopping block and swinging the axe until it cuts it through. I toss the chopped pieces onto the firewood rack. And then I do it again.

My shoulder muscles are taut, and my breath becomes labored after several logs. Warmth begins working into my limbs as the circulation gets pumping again. My bones are still chilled from my wet pants but sweat trickles down my back. I take off my gloves and jacket and toss them over the railing.

The sound of the porch creaking draws my attention and Rosie pops her head around the corner. “Hey, Moretti,” she greets, a wry smile on her lips.

She’s got her hair messy and pulled up high on her head and her cheeks are tinted pink with heat. She looks as pretty as a peach. And I’m dying to kiss her. To taste her.

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