Page 11 of Pick Me
In any case, assholery was the best defense, because otherwise…
“No,” Webb continued, plainly exasperated. “Gage hasn’t said a word to me. But then, he doesn’t strike me as that kind of guy.”
I shrugged again. The man-child was perfectly capable of complaining tomeabout all sorts of shit, but I supposed Webb was right. Goodman didn’t seem the type to tattle. Why should he when it was so much more effective for him to just give me an angelic look and then spout off for twenty-two minutes and twelve seconds (of course I’d timed him; it was either that orlistento him) about which cover of “Landslide” best captured the essential pain of the original, while I contemplated the many, many pleasurable ways I could shut him up?
It had been years and years since I’d wanted something with an all-consuming passion, and longer still since I’d wanted someonethat badly, and the whole thing set me off-balance. I wasn’t entirely sure whether I wanted to wipe the smile off his lips with my own or just sit beside him and bask in his presence like he was sunshine—and, Jesus Christ, that right there was a more flowery sentiment than I’d expressed about anything in over a decade.
I hated thecompulsionof him. The way he’d swooped in and taken up rent-free space in my head within seconds for no good reason whatsoever. My inability to swiftly evict him felt like a sign of my weakened mental state.
One more sign I wasn’t in control.
Rick and my colleagues at Bormon Klein Jacovic would laugh their asses off if they ever got wind that their steady-handed head investment auditor had turned into a caricature of a middle-aged man going through a midlife crisis, behaving like a moody-assed teenager over a man nearly half his age.
Webb cleared his throat, and I startled guiltily. I hadn’t been paying attention.
Goodman’s wandering brain was infectious.
“Knox, I know it hasn’t been easy for you, moving back here. And I know you like to pretend you’re invincible, so it’s hard for you to wrap your mind around the fact that you have certain…” He broke off as Katey came over and deposited two giant plastic cups of ice water and a couple of menus on the table, then continued. “…certain health issues—”
“Panic attacks, Webb,” I interjected. “That’s all. Mental bullshit. Not cancer, okay? I’m not dying here.”
But even as I said it, I remembered how I’d felt the first time I’d had one. The sickening lurch in my stomach, the iron band around my chest, the feeling that I was endlessly falling—through the floors of the building, through the sidewalk, through the entire earth, and out into the stratosphere on the other side—and no force on earth, especially me, could stop it.
It hadfeltlike I imagined dying might.
“You ended up in the ER twice.” Webb toyed with his straw wrapper, an uncharacteristic show of nerves.
“The first time was a massive overreaction because my coworkers thought it was… something else.” I waved a hand, dismissing my colleagues’ heart attack concerns. “And the second time, it was because my dumb ass hyperventilated, passed out, and concussed myself. But there was zero blood, and they discharged me almost immediately. And now I have a therapist and good coping mechanisms, so I’m good.”
All is well with me. Or it would be, anyway. I was making sure of it.
“Right. Yeah. I’m not sure why I’m making such a big deal about your silly little panic attacks andconcussion.” Webb huffed out a breath like he was trying to remember where he’d put his patience. “Have you slept a full night yet?”
I set my jaw. No, I had not.Yet. But that was only because things were still so up in the air.
Obviously, I understood my brother’s concern. Dr. Travers said my panic attacks were probably triggered by my “stressful environment”—the bustling city, the constant work and too little sleep—which meant sleep was a priority, but every medication and supplement I’d tried left me groggy. Sometimes I felt like I was locked in a delightful little catch-22, where sleeplessness amped up my anxiety, and my anxiety made it difficult to sleep.
But I also wasn’t going to say that, because then Webb would ask how often I had telehealth visits with Dr. Travers, and whether I’d been honest with the doctor about my sleep issues, and he probably wouldn’t understand if I explained that I was handling things just fine.
“Never mind,” Webb said. “I’m not trying to pick a fight. I’m just saying, I know it’s hard leaving your work and your routine behind, selling your condo and all that. I guess there’s a kind of…” He hesitated, then forced himself to go on. “…a kind ofgriefto it, isn’t there? Even if you know it’s for the best? Like when Amanda and I split.” He cleared his throat and studied the shiplap. “All of which is to say, I get it’s not easy, but I’m damn glad to have you back for good. We missed you.”
I fought the urge to squirm. I was confident I’d never said I was back for good. Yes, I’d maybesuggestedit, but only because that had seemed like the easiest way to get around Webb’s pride so I could take over the books and give Sunday Orchard an infusion of cash from my savings while I was taking the mental health sabbatical my bosses at Bormon Klein Jacovic had politely but firmly suggested for me.
But I hadn’t actuallypromisedthem anything.
And also, sweet, tiny baby Jesus, preserve me from Webb Sunday when his affable farmer facade cracked and his genuine, deep emotions started peeking through because I was a sucker for it.
“Missed you, too,” I admitted.
“And I’m not saying that because you’ve been a lifesaver with the financial stuff—though, you know, just to reiterate, you paying for Porter’s school and putting aside the money for Em’s was more than anyone expected. I don’t know why the hell you felt like, on top of all that, you should sell off investments so you could ‘buy in’ to Sunday Orchard when you moved home. The land and the legacy belong to all of us, no matter whose name is on the deed. And the only reason we were in debt at all was because of meand my divorce—”
“Webb,” I warned. “Drop it.”
“I know you don’t wanna talk about it. Neither do I. But wedidneed the money, and Idoappreciate it,” he admitted. “And I appreciate you taking over the books, since fuck knows when Drew would’ve been able to get out there to sort through that tower of receipts with his ankle all fucked up.”
“It’s not a big deal. Although, honest to Christ, I’ve never seen such a chaotic pile of paper. There’s stuff from 1995 mixed with stuff from this April. Anyway.” I squirmed. “Can we be done now?”
But Webb wasn’t finished. “Even more than I want your help with the books, I want you to be happy, Knox. All the way happy. I’ve been reading up on panic attacks—”
