Page 46 of Riding the Sugar High

He focuses on the list again. “Go downtown?”

Oh boy. “Um, that’s...When I was younger, I thought ‘town’ was part of it, but it turns out it’s not.”

“Go down?” His brows rise as he straightens. “Oh, go down...on you?”

I tap the tip of my nose.

“But it’s not struck through.”

“I’m aware.”

For a moment, he looks as appalled as if I’d told him I feed on human souls, but quickly collecting himself, he turns his focus to the list. “I guess number nine is also from your childhood?”

Number nine...Lend me his crayons.

“I wrote that one after Darrel Taylor refused to lend me his.” I scoff, remembering my first crush, with his sandy-blond hair and cute chin dimple. “That was my very first heartbreak.”

His eyes roll again, this time nearly disappearing into the back of his head. “What about number twenty-two?Lend me his leather jacket?”

Oh, dammit. I picture Logan’s jacket, embarrassment creeping up my spine. I forgot about that one. “Teen years. I was in my bad boy phase.”

“Huh.” He looks around, then stands and opens the drawer. Once he’s back at the table, he’s holding a pen.

“Wait—what are you doing?”

“There’s something better than a leather jacket, Primrose.”

I squint, trying to read the word he’s scribbling, until he sets the pen down and returns the list to me.Faux. That’s what he added—afauxleather jacket.

Once I set the list beside my plate, I watch him expectantly. He can feel it, but he keeps his eyes on his plate for the longest time. Until my patience runs out. “Oh, come on.”

He sighs, and I hope it means he’s giving up. “What do you want to know?”

I’m not sure. I guess, first of all, I’d like him to acknowledge he had a panic attack.

He leans back in his chair. “You said it happened to you a lot growing up?”

“Yes. When I was in high school.”

“Is that when you wrote number seven?Protect me from bullies?”

When I nod, he crosses his arms and presses them on the wooden edge of the table. “I’ve never felt anything like it before. It was like...like I was...”

“Dying?”

He blinks, his hands clenching into fists. “I kept thinking about everything that’s going on. The farm, my family. And then, all of a sudden, it was like I couldn’t breathe. My heart was beating too fast, and my eyes had black spots, and...”

I fight the instinct to touch him, because I figure it’ll make him uncomfortable, and he’s finally opening up. But Idowant to, especially as I remember my first panic attack, when I overheard the classmate I had a crush on saying they shouldn’t invite me to the cinema, as I’d likely take up two seats.

“How could it have been all...in my mind?”

“It wasn’t,” I explain, and when he meets my gaze, there’s a vulnerable look in his eyes that makes it even harder not to offer some physical comfort. “Your heart was beating faster. It reallywasharder to breathe, and your vision was most definitely tunneling. But it all came from here,” I say as I point at my head. “Not because your heart, lungs, or eyes don’t work.”

“So my brain wants me dead?”

“Your mind was overwhelmed, and it went into fight-or-flight mode. You tried to take in more oxygen, so you breathed harder. And your body released adrenaline, which made your heart beat faster, and your muscles tense up.”

He seems to think it over for a moment, his shoulders dropping slightly. “Is there a way to...” He presses his lips tight. “I just can’t have this shit happen to me randomly. I ride a bike and operate machinery—it’s dangerous.”

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