Page 88 of This Side of Beautiful

“Iamproud of you.” Mrs. Hayes placed her hand on her husband’s wrist. “We both are.”

Landon steepled his palms on the table. “He told me I was an embarrassment the last time I saw him. That I always embarrass him. Why would I want to come home when the people who are supposed to love me the most can’t really see me? Janae’s been in my life a second, and she gets me. Why can’t you?”

Mr. Hayes threw back his alcohol and put the glass down not so gently. “Has she seen you freak out? Has she seen you become so paralyzed with fear that you’ve pissed on yourself? Huh? That you only open your mouth to fight with me and let everyone else, like Cedrick and probably this young lady right here, run over you?” He looked at me with pity in his eyes. “If he hasn’t embarrassed you yet, he will. My son, as brilliant as he is, can’t handle pressure. Then again, you probably make the perfect pair, since your own track record isn’t the greatest.”

A shroud of hurtful silence covered the table, and whatever tenuous relationship Landon had had with his father snapped and might never be repaired. I clasped my hands together and bit back my desire to hurl an insult at Mr. Hayes. Why hadn’t I listened when Landon made it clear that he didn’t want to see his parents?

Landon’s face flushed with anger and shame, his breathing sharp, controlled only by sheer will. I wanted to say something, to stand up for him, for us, but my voice felt lodged in my throat.

“You can talk about me all you want, but you won’t talk about Janae,” Landon said, his voice a dangerous calm. He pushed back his chair, slow and deliberate. “I’m done with both of you. Don’t call me again.”

He stood, shoulders squared, fists clenched at his sides.

“Landon, please… please.” Mrs. Hayes touched my wrist. “I’m so sorry. His father has been drinking and… and… he didn’t mean…”

“Respectfully, I won’t let anyone hurt him… not even you.” My voice came out steady, though I was shaking inside. I reached for his hand and took it, gripping it tight. I refused to look at Mr. Hayes because if I did, I might curse him out and make headlines again.

We turned away with entwined hands, and I whispered, “Baby, it’s all right. We’re going to get in the car and go home.”

He said quietly, “I need to go to the studio.”

“Okay… whatever you want. We have to pretend that we’re okay if you don’t want people to talk about us and your parents.” I smiled up at him, hoping the pained look on his face would ease up. “Please… breathe. It’s just a few more steps.”

Landon nodded and gave me a strained grin. His hand was still locked on mine, and we might have been fine if I’d called our driver earlier. When we stepped outside, a crowd waited for us.

Cameras flashed. People were everywhere. A maelstrom of emotions directed at us. Our car moved up the street, but overzealous fans blocked the way, trying to get a glimpse of us. Beads of perspiration dotted his forehead, though it was a cool May night.

I remained quiet as he pushed firmly, blocking me with his body, through the crowd. I didn’t stop or bother to chat because the fans were too wild, and I knew Landon couldn’t take much more of the people pushing against us. I had to be his calm in the middle of a storm if he was to survive getting in the car without having a full-blown panic attack in front of all these people.

The driver got close enough to jump out of the car and then made enough space to open the door for us to hop in.

Once we were in the back seat, Landon clawed at his throat, his fingers trembling as he struggled for air. His breath came in ragged gasps. Shallow. Choppy. Desperate.

Panic flooded his wide, unfocused eyes.

“What’s wrong? Landon, talk to me! Please… what’s wrong?” My voice quivered, but I reached for him, gripping his arm as if my touch alone could keep him from slipping away.

He yanked his jacket off, hands fumbling as he popped the top buttons of his shirt. His chest heaved like he was fighting for breath he couldn’t find.

“So… hot,” he gasped. “My chest…”

The driver kept glancing into the rearview mirror, his own concern bleeding through his tense expression. “Looks like he needs medical attention. The hospital is not far.”

Landon shook his head violently. “No. Hate hospitals. Studio. Cedrick.” His voice cracked as if the effort to speak was too much.

I gripped his clammy hand and turned to the driver. “Take us to the studio. Now.”

As we sped through the streets, I grabbed my phone with shaky hands and dialed Cedrick. He answered on the second ring. “What’s up? Did Landon leave his cell?” His tone was light, completely unaware of the storm ripping Landon apart.

I pushed through the panic gripping my own chest. “It’s Landon. He’s having a panic attack. He’s asking for you. We’re heading to the studio.”

A beat of silence. Then, Cedrick’s voice sharpened. “How far are you?”

I glanced outside, scanning the street signs, struggling to focus through my own rising terror. “Ten minutes. Should I take him to the hospital?”

“No,” Landon choked out. His body shuddered against me.

“Put me on speaker,” Cedrick said.

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