Page 67 of Checking Mr. Wrong
“I don’t need to know,” she whispers, standing closer so only I can hear her. “I just need to help you be okay on the other side of it.”
My heart rate revs higher than an F1 car, and my fingertips are going numb as I tap more. It’s a rhythm I’ve leaned on a thousand times before, but tonight, it’s not working. Not really. The noise inside my head is still deafening. Thoughts crash into one another, jagged and sharp, as the scene replays on a loop. Clément, crumpled on the ice. My stick. My fault. Over and over again.
I know if I don’t rein this in—and fast—I’m going to spiral straight into a full-blown panic attack. The urge to keep tappingstays at the forefront, my fingers moving as if that will somehow hold me together. My gaze is locked on my feet, watching the scuffed tips of my sneakers, but even the focus doesn’t help. The swirl is pulling me under, a relentless current.
“Asher.” Mabel’s voice cuts through the static like a lifeline, soft but steady. I don’t lift my head. Can’t. But then her hand slips into mine, her fingers warm and sure as they thread through my own. My breath hitches, and the tapping stops mid-sequence. My eyes drop to our joined hands, and something in my chest loosens, just a fraction.
“I’m in a loop,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper as I tap my temple with my free hand. “It’s not stopping.”
“Okay,” she says, calm but curious. Not pitying. Not dismissive. Just here. With me. “What happens when you’re in a loop?”
I swallow hard, the question pulling me up, even if just a little. I don’t want to explain this—not really. Talking about it feels like exposing the cracks, the mess. But she’s waiting, her hand still steady around mine, her thumb brushing gently against my knuckle as I find the words.
“It’s like…” I start, pausing to take a slow, deliberate breath. “It’s like being trapped in a spinning wheel. The same thought, the same fear, it keeps coming around, only faster and faster. And I can’t…” My voice falters, and I press my lips together, trying to shove back the wave of emotion threatening to choke me. “I can’t get off. It’s like if I don’t keep…” I tap my fingers against my leg once, a ghost of the earlier rhythm. “If I don’t do something to break it, the thought gets bigger. Louder. It swallows me.”
Mabel’s grip on my hand tightens, just a little, and when I finally dare to meet her eyes, they’re steady. Calm. Her expression isn’t full of fear or judgment. It’s her. The same Mabel who’s been a safe place for me. The one who got mad about a trolley then chipped her tooth. The one whose kisses ground me and make me feel so warm and gooey on the inside that I can forget what day it is.
“What can I do?” she asks. Simple. Direct. And somehow, it’s enough to cut through the fog, just for a second.
“This,” I say, giving her hand a squeeze. “You’re already doing it.”
Her thumb brushes over my knuckles again, and I focus on the warmth of her touch. My breathing starts to slow, each inhale a little deeper, each exhale a little steadier. The chaos in my mind doesn’t disappear entirely, but it begins to quiet, the spinning wheel slowing to a manageable pace. My chest feels lighter, and the tightness gripping my ribs loosens, letting me take a full breath for the first time since it started.
Beside me, Mabel simply stands still, and is with me. And it’s all I need. We stay this way for a few more minutes, until I feel as close to myself as I’m going to right now.
“Will you take me to see him?” I ask. “Clément?”
“Are you sure you don’t want to wait until later?”
I shake my head. “I’d like to talk to him.”
“We will, but first, let’s make sure you’ve stopped carrying around all that guilt,” she says, her teasing tone softening the air around us. “Otherwise, he might just slap some sense into you.” Her voice softens as she steps closer. “Listen, you need to really hear me on this: none of this—absolutely none of it—is your fault. You’ve been holding on to blame that doesn’t belong to you, and it’s time to let it go.”
There’s a moment when someone is talking and you think you’re on one subject, but then all of sudden, there’s a change in their tone and it makes you realize this convo is veering onto another path altogether.
“Are we still talking about Clément?”
“I’m talking about all of it.” Mabel pulls her jacket tighter around her. “You blame yourself for your mom, but her accident wasn’t your fault. Me falling a few minutes ago? Not your fault. Clément getting hurt in a game tonight? Not your fault.”
She makes sense. Man, I am thankful one of us is thinking straight. “What am I going to do when you’re gone?”
Mabel chuckles. “Live a more peaceful life. One where my mother probably hunts you down and begs you to come over and help her with her to-do list, but peaceful nonetheless.”
“I’m sure she has more pictures I can hang,” I say as I rake my fingers through my hair. “But you make me feel like I’m a ship that’s finally anchored in its port. I’m not ashamed to say that since we met, I’ve been my sanest in years.”
“Asher, it’s not like we won’t stay in touch after I go back East.” She looks at me, tilting her head to the side. “Is that what you mean?”
I hadn’t considered a world where wedidn’tstay in touch, but suddenly I’m wondering. What if she goes back to New York and we text every day, making time to chat on video or call each other as often as we can. Then how long until the consistency of those calls dies off and we’re lucky if we text once a week? The thought of her no longer in my life makes me more than sad. It freaks me out. She has her dreams, a job, a schedule, and I have mine.
“When do you leave?”
“A couple days after Halloween.”
“So, there’s still time,” I tease, wagging a finger in the air.
“If you’re trying to convince me to stay…” she murmurs, her voice soft but uncertain.
“A guy can hope,” I reply, forcing a grin.
