Page 43 of A Shot at Love
I start pacing, agitated and frustrated. “What?” He sounds bewildered.
I throw my arms out. “What do you mean, what? What the hell are we doing?”
Daniel is growing more uncertain by the second. “We’re friends—right?”
The words stop me in my tracks. “Is that what you want?”
A fraught second, where I beg him with my eyes to be honest, for my sanity, please. His voice nearly cracks when he finally says, “No.”
I should feel a romantic gooiness in my chest, a sense of relief. Instead, I’m still angry. “Then why are you leaving me,again?”
I wonder if he can hear all the hurt hurled at him in that question. He walks over to me, gentle, like I’m a wild animal. He grabs my wrists, slowly lowering them from their current frantic condition. He leans in very closely, our noses almost brushing. My heart trips over in its chest. “I didn’t want to leave you, Annie. I’ve regretted it every single day.”
I blink at him. “What do you mean?” How could he have regretted it every day? I hadn't seen or heard from him until Jadea called.
“Come sit.” He releases me and gestures to the nest of pillows. “Please?”
I nod, warily following him and sitting with a few feet between us. I gesture for him to continue.
He startles me with a direct question. “How did I seem in the hospital? After my accident?”
I rack my brain, thinking over those memories of him smiling weakly from his hospital bed and me perkily bringing him the best cookies from the vendingmachines. “I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “As expected, I guess.”
I’m trying to connect the dots, but Daniel switches track again. “Did you know that when I met you, I had been on anti-anxiety meds for nearly four years?”
It would have shocked me less if he had told me he was on steroids. “N-no,” I stutter. I’m not upset by this reveal; people should get whatever help they need. I was in therapy during my early high school years to discuss my self-esteem, which really helped. I still have e-visits with my therapist every few months to check in. It’s just… I didn’t feel that type of camaraderie with Daniel. He never mentioned a past history of mental health or depression. He never seemed to have anxiety about anything. He reminded me more of Jadea than myself. Confident, sure of himself, competitive, kind.
Perfect.
It’s strange to consider an extrovert as someone who has anxiety, but I know it’s possible. Maybe even frequent.
Daniel takes a deep breath. “It started pretty early on. My parents noticed it as I got into middle school and high school. Every time I failed or did something imperfectly, I would get bouts of anxiety or even have a panic attack. If I failed a test, didn’t say the right thing to a friend, disappointed my parents… I had this amazing family, a good life, but everything always felt out of control. I needed to get things in order. To do things right to deserve that life.” When he notices my surprised expression, he adds, “Or at least that’s how it felt.”
“My parents started taking me to therapy and that helped. It was amazing to talk to someone who didn’t have a stake in the game. Who I wasn’t afraid of disappointing. I also went to a psychiatrist who recommended anti-anxiety meds. We put them off for a while, unsure if they were right for me. But as I got further into high school, the anxiety only got worse. Besides the meds and the therapy, the only thing that gave me relief was—”
“Running,” I whisper.
Daniel’s eyes are bright with emotion. “It was the only time my brain was quiet. I got on the meds, and I ran track, and I talked to my therapist. I spent more time with my family. Things got better. When I went to Stanford, I grew even more confident. Anxiety would always be in my life, but I had found ways to manage it. I had more joy in my life than I could have imagined. I met you and you were amazing, like a shooting star—” His words grow strangled. He grips his knees and takes a deep breath.
I reach out and take his hand, threading our fingers together. I finish the story, as best as I can imagine it. “And then, you got hit by a car. And your running career was over. That control you had perfected was gone. The patterns of your life had been ripped apart.”
Daniel looks at me, expression open. “Annie, I knew I would need help after the accident. I realized I knew how to manage my anxiety when life went according to plan, but not when things got hard. Those days in the hospital with you, I knew you were being wonderful andkind, but I felt so far away. I couldn’t be with you the way I wanted. You were about to be drafted. Your future, yourdreamwas just weeks away. I couldn’t bring you down, drag you to physical therapy, and have you visit me at my parents’ house as I reimagined my future.” His voice falls to a harsh whisper. “It was excruciating, imagining a life without my Olympic dream. No professional track. No racing. I went to a week of in-patient treatment. Then I had therapy and physical therapy several times a week formonths. It wasn’t meant for you. I couldn’t do that to you.”
We’re both misty-eyed now. I squeeze his hand, almost too tightly. “You wouldn’t have brought me down. You’re a fighter, Daniel. You might have been down, but not for long.” I smile at him, a little watery. “What’s the rest of the story?”
His brow crinkles. “The rest of it? What do you mean?”
I keep my voice kind, even. “You did grow. You found a new dream, and you have your Emmy-award winning show. How did that happen?”
Daniel runs a hand through his hair ruefully. “It was luck, really. I was missing sports, and I found that old op-ed I wrote about you on my computer. After reading it, I remembered how exciting it was to be an observer of sports. I figured I could capture some of that magic again, just from a slightly different perspective. My YouTube channel’s success steadily increased during those first two years, and then Iris found me. She’s brilliant, and she basically co-created the show with me. I still go totherapy once a month and take my meds, but it doesn’t feel so crushing. I’ve learned to adapt.” His smile is wry. “Even if it’s just a little bit.” There’s so much about Daniel that I understand now. Nuance to his every word, his every action.The reasons for his precision, his facade of perfection.
“I go to therapy, too,” I tell him, surprising myself. A hint of surprise flashes across his face. “I went more often when I was a teenager, but we still check in occasionally. There’s no shame in it, even if the world sometimes makes us feel like there is. Thank you for telling me.” I bite my lip, wondering if I should be honest. He waits expectantly, as though he knows I have more to say. Finally, I add, “I just wish you’d told me before. I would have understood if you needed a break from us for your mental health. I would have been disappointed and missed you, but I would have understood. Instead, I was sureIhad done something wrong.”
It’s an almost impossible situation. Daniel was hurting, and he did what he needed to do to help himself. He did all the right things, really. I just needed a text message. A quick call. A sticky note on his hospital bed pillow. Some clue that he was okay and that he actually cared for me.
Daniel’s eyes close at my words, as though they pain him. “I’m so sorry, Annie. I should have done better. Even when you’re hurting, it’s not an excuse to hurt other people. I told myself I never texted or called for your sake. Because you needed a clean break, and if Itexted or called, you would figure out what was going on, and you wouldn’t have let me leave. You would have been there with me.”
“Damn straight,” I whisper, smile a little wobbly.
