Page 14 of Untruly With You

I clutch at the hammering in my chest, wondering if Frankie heard my racing pulse over the phone. “I’m fine,” I force out.

“You’ll come to the wedding, won’t you?” There’s something different in Frankie’s voice.Hope. I can’t remember the last time I heard it from her. “It would mean a lot to everyone. Even Wells. Even Dad.”

The pounding sensation moves from my chest to my head, and I lean back against the side of the building. Ice shoots through my veins at the mention of my father.

“Sutton?” Frankie asks, her voice distant now behind the sound of my mind working overtime. “Sutton?”

“I’m here,” I say, choking on my words.

“Will you come?”

“I don’t know,” I say, which is my much more polite way of sayinghell no.

The door to the karaoke bar opens, music pouring out onto the sidewalk. I try to turn my head, but my body feels frozen in place. Only her voice can pull me ever so slightly from my mental whirlwind.

“Hey, cowboy! Guess who just got offered a freelance gig that could turn into a real big-girl job?” Only a moment goes by before Laine is right at my side, tiptoeing up to see my face. “What’s going on?” she asks, her voice laced with some of the emotion I’m feeling.

“I’ll—I’ll talk to you later, Frankie,” I say into the phone, my hand shaking as I slide it back into my pocket. Themotion draws my whole body down until I’m doubled over, hands on my knees.

Everything spins.

Laine places one hand on my back and the other on my chest. “I think you’re having a panic attack. Focus on your breaths.” She does the same, exaggerating them so I can focus on the sound and match mine in line. When it’s clear that isn’t working, she brings my hand to just under her collarbone so we can both feel each other’s breathing. We do this for a few minutes until the hammering in my head calms and the pressure around my chest loosens. I sink to the ground with closed eyes, still tuned in to our synchronized breaths.

“Let’s go back to my apartment,” Laine suggests.

I nod, even though nothing sounds better than going to my own room right now. There, I could lock myself in solitude while I pretend I can resolve my thoughts on my own, even when I know that’s not the case. But Laine will want to keep an eye on me to be sure I’m okay, and I’m too tired to argue over which apartment to go to.

We take longer than usual to get through the city and back to Laine’s place. She trips a few times on the trek and runs into three people and two light posts, all because her eyes are trained dutifully on me.

“I’m fine,” I whisper to Laine as soon as we’re inside her front door. She ignores me, sitting me down on the edge of her unmade bed and returning in a flash with a glass of cold water.

“Drink,” she orders.

Once I’ve emptied the glass in a three gulps, Laine pushes me back against the pillows, letting my head rest on top of them. For a while, we stay silent. I assume Laine is listening in on my breathing, making sure it stays steady. My relief at her comfort outweighs any embarrassment I might feel.

“Can we talk about what happened?” Laine finally asks once my pulse returns to normal. There’s still a hint of red across her lips, even after visits to three restaurants and a bar.

“Do we have to?”

Her fingers brush against my knee before she retreats to a barstool, giving me space. “I think so. When you’re ready.”

I groan, taking in a heavy inhale. “My little brother is getting married.”

“That’s a bad thing?”

“I haven’t spoken to him in six years. I haven’t even beenhomein six years. And now he wants me to show up there and be his best man.”

“This could be a great opportunity to fix things between you two,” Laine says, eyes sparkling at the thought.

“Did I mention he’s marrying my ex-girlfriend? That I dated for five years?”

Laine makes a face that I’ve never seen from her—or anyone, really. It’s the expression someone might make if they saw a monkey flying an airplane: utterly bewildered, slightly fearful, yet strangely entertained.

“Did Ialsomention that—six years ago—my father told me I wasn’t welcome back home?”

“Your life is absolutely Shakespearean,” Laine says, letting out a dry, disbelieving laugh. Then, it bubbles into one that’s livelier. She claps both hands over her mouth to stifle her laughter. “I’m so sorry. It isn’t funny. It’s just…this sounds like a story I’d hear onDr. Phil.”

“I can’t go, right?” I ask.

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