Page 42 of The Back Forty
I chosemefor the first time in a decade and I'm damn glad that I did because the relationship I was in was just as toxic as the job that I was working.
And still. One message. One condescending, careerist, emotionally-stunted text from my ex-boyfriend and I’m right back where I started. Or maybe it was thatplus the caffeine crash from consuming way too much before today’s pitch. Or the aftermath of the pitch. Or maybe it was the way Lawson’s gaze kept locked in place on every single cell in my body as I spoke, and how badly I didn’t want to let him down.
Because this isn’t just a job anymore. It’s not about meeting quota or chasing metrics or earning some hollow corporate praise. It’s personal now. If I fail here, it’s not just about disappointing myself. It’s about disappointinghim.
And for whatever ridiculous, misplaced reason, everything I've been doing has been to please him because I want him to be proud of me, too.
But Elijah's words hit a nerve that I didn’t know was still exposed. He’s not wrong about most of it. Itisa family business that I work for. And I’m the outsider. Just an employee of Lawson's albeit one that I think he values due to my most recent promotion. I’m now the highest-ranking non-Marshall.
Yet if something ever had to give, it would be me. Cut the dead weight. The outlier. He could technically go back to managing interviews, pitches and marketing materials on his own.
But he wouldn't, would he? I mean, he wants me to hire my replacement. That seems like a good sign, right?
And maybe Lawson saw that tonight. Maybe he saw me fumble with my notes. Maybe he saw the vibrator on the bed last night and thought I was careless, unprofessional or just…too much to be around him.
And so, I spiraled.
I unraveled. Got caught in the current of my own thoughts and forgot how to swim. One second, I was undressing for dinner and the next, I was shaking so violently I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t even move my legs.
It wasn’t until I slipped my sleep shirt over my head and dropped onto the edge of the bed that I realized what was happening. I'd accidentally dressed for bed instead of dinner and I was having a full blown panic attack remembering the feeling of fear after my stroke. The helplessness and the worry about what would be next for my life.
Fuck. Fuck.Fuck.
My phone was still in my hand when Lawson knocked.
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. My chest was caving in; my lungs were locked. It felt like every molecule of air had been sucked from the room. My vision blurred and the black spots started creeping in from the edges like a vignette made of fear. And then his voice cut through the fog that my mind had become.
“Dani, open up!”
I tried. I swear I tried to move so that I could play this all off for what it was. In my head, I think. Just a weak moment of vulnerability. But my body wouldn’t cooperate.
“Lawson,” I finally managed. “It’s unlocked. Ugh.”
The door practically flew off the hinges when he opened it. Then his steps. Fast. Heavy. Before he was kneeling in front of me. His face a mixture of worry, heat and I'm certain disappointment because I'm weak. Much weaker than I thought I was. I'm so embarrassingly weak.
“What the hell happened?” he growls.
I try to speak, but the words die in my throat. My heart hammers against my ribs, and I keep opening and closing my jaw like Ineed to yawn. I know the sign well. My body isn’t getting enough oxygen to my brain. It’s like I can’t take a full breath, so I just keep yawning, over and over, hoping that one will finally stick.
“I—” A ragged gasp escapes my lips. “I can’t… I can’t breathe,” I choke out, clawing at his forearms like he can anchor me to the earth and push some needed air into my chest.
"Focus on taking deep breaths in and out of your nose steadily," his voice soothes me a little, but my lungs still aren’t working. I can't open my mouth wide enough or maybe I'm not even trying. I'm not sure.
His arms go around me immediately and they’re strong and steady. From under my armpits, he helps me stand, and then scoops me into his arms like I weigh nothing.
“Let’s try a change of scenery,” he says, his voice softer and much more controlled than I'm feeling.
I nod against his chest. Or maybe I just twitch. I’m not sure. My vision is still tunnel-dark around the edges. This is something that has happened to me in the past with panic attacks. It's like the anxiety pushes all the blood away from my eyes and my vision starts to disappear.
He walks me slowly into the hotel bathroom and I hear the water running as if he's filling up the tub.
“I read once that changing your environment and stimulating your senses can help ground you during a panic attack,” he says. I wonder where and why he read that, but I don’t have the energy to ask. “Will you get in the bath if I help you?”
I look up at him. His face is so close and calm. His hazel eyes are locked on mine like they can pull me back from the dangerous edge that I'm toeing. And maybe in another time and place, thisentire situation would feel like a shift in our relationship away from boss and employee. Friends with boundaries.
Maybe I would’ve been hyperaware of the intimacy—the tension of being half-dressed and vulnerable in a bathroom with my boss who might just be the most attractive and kindest man I've ever known.
But right now, none of that matters. Right now, I feel like I'm dying. Like death could take me under at any moment. It's a terrifying and out of body experience and one that I desperately need to stop. And if my last moment on this earth is spent with Lawson undressing me, well I don't think I would ever regret that.
