Page 141 of Sweet Hate
Forever-type feelings that I absolutely should not be feeling.
I don’t know what to do.
My nails dig into my palms when a wave of anxiety washes over me. Black spots fill my vision as the room starts to spin.
I try to grip the surface in front of me, but my clammy hands won’t hold on.
I lean back against the cold glass of the oven and slide down to the floor to sit with my head hanging low. I need to get myself under control before this turns into a full-blown attack.
Breathe in for four.
Hold for four.
Out for six.
Repeat.
I do this for about fifteen minutes, while running my thumb over the nail indents in my palm, focusing on the subtle dips in my skin.
Joke’s on me that the anxiety I thought I’d be feeling over making the wedding cakes isn’t even the issue. What I’m now facing is more crippling.
Whatever way I look at this, I lose.
I’ll either lose the job I busted my ass for—the one thing that gave me purpose my entire adult life, or I lose Axel, and what’s starting to feel like my heart and goddamn soul.
How am I supposed to choose?
I need to get up and make a start on these sponges, but instead I stay here. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I lean my head back on the cool glass and close my eyes.
This is nice.
This is calming.
Maybe divine intervention will strike me down with a lightningbolt or some shit, so I wake up supercharged and know what to do with my life.
I’m hit with a familiar comforting smell.
Is this a sign?
I open one eye and peek from my vantage point on the floor to find Axel’s concerned blue eyes staring straight back as he crouches in front of me. I jerk in shock, slamming my head back into the oven and my knee into his balls, sending him crashing onto his ass with a muttered curse.
“Bollocks, shit, fuck, I’m so sorry!”
I scramble to my knees and crawl over to him.
What can I do?
Think, Haven. Think.
Ice.
Will that work?
I don’t know if he’d want to stick that on his junk, but it’s probably burning, given the hue of his face right now.
“Let me get you some ice,” I say as I try to jump up, but his hand wraps around my wrist and tugs me back down beside him.
“I’m OK, Sprinks. Give me a second. I’m OK.”
