Page 2 of Crash & Burn

“One . . .” Mateo says through his teeth. I can picture him seething with his phone in his hand.

“Quit it,” I complain a little too loudly, causing a few heads to turn my way. This isn’t going to work. I am an adult, and he can’t treat me like I’m still ten years old. “I’m leaving the bar now.”

“Two . . .”

“I don’t even know what the big deal is, I’m on my way home to m—“

“I’ll see you in ten minutes, Camila.”

And with that, I hear thebeepof the call ending, and I question why I even called him in the first place.

My initial intent was to let off some steam, to vent a little, and to hear him say how his little sister is a badass. Instead, he’s pissed at me and on his way to my apartment to lecture me on what he will most likely call another “overreaction” even though he knows that leaving my apartment makes me anxious and jumpy.

With a huff, I stick my phone in the back pocket of my faux leather skirt and pick up my pace.

The closer I get to my apartment, the more the sidewalks clear out, and the breeze from the Milwaukee River helps level my head. With less people and less music, my thoughts start coming in more coherently.

Sure, maybe I didn’t need to punch the guy in the face, but I didn’t know what else to do. My options were to be nice or be a bitch, and both routes would have left me feeling either unheard, uncomfortable, or pissed . . .orall three.

It was a lose-lose situation no matter how you look at it.

There’s no way the guy was going to back off, and he didn’t need to put his grimy hand on my ass. Hedefinitelydidn’t need to take my elbow to his chest as an invite to continue his advances. The drink I threw in his face should have been his second clue.

I should have known going to a crowded bar blasting music was going to make my anxiety skyrocket, and I’m lucky I got out of there without having a full-blown panic attack.

It’s been a few months since my last one, and I’ve been fine as long as I avoid my triggers, but I was overconfident tonight. I was stupid to think I could focus on the conversation and ignore the music playing. After years of therapy for managing my anxiety and grief, I can usually calm myself down. But tonight, there was way too much going on for me to do anything but act out of instinct.

I see my apartment building come into view, but I’m barely able to grab my keys from my purse because I am starting to shake so badly. My thoughts started out clear and calm, but now I’m seeing red and want to go back to the bar, find that asshole, and use my foot instead of my hand to target a much lower region.

Stop,I tell myself.

I freeze just outside the doors of my building, trying to see through the red clouds blurring my vision.

Breathe.

I inhale, then exhale, trying to push the memories that are threatening to come to the surface away, and I keep my eyes wide open.

Too afraid that I’ll seehimif I close them.

I take one more deep breath before heading into the building.

My therapist will have her job cut out for her on Thursday.

I wave at the security officer manning the lobby and round the corner to head to my place. Having an apartment on the first floor is convenient, especially because I can avoid the elevators.

I hate those things.

As I turn the corner, not one, but two faces come into view. One is Mateo, standing with his arms crossed in the middle of the hallway just outside my apartment door. He has one of his hoodies on with the familiar logo of a heart on fire with his band’s name, Cross My Heart, written across it.

Mateo is the lead singer of a rock band with three of his friends. I’ve known the three of them since I was fifteen, and they were all in their mid-twenties. The band started off as a side thing for them—all four guys have day jobs and spend their free time practicing. Over the past two years, Cross My Heart has been playing more gigs around the state which helped them land a spot opening for some bigger names across the Midwest. They’re hoping in the next year some of those bands will offer them a spot on a U.S. tour.

Mateo never let me come around the band when they were practicing. Theo, the guitarist, and Silas, the bassist, were friends Mateo had in high school, but their current drummer joined the band when Mateo met him in his first year of college.

And, to my surprise . . . there he is.

The other face that greets me is Cross My Heart’s drummer: Eddie Ramirez.

Eddie is leaning against my apartment door, with one foot on the ground and one foot on the door behind him. His arms are crossed, and he looks rather bored to be here. Eddie has jet black hair that isn’t too long or too short, wavy but not curly, and attractive features.

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