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Confession #1

Confession #1

I'm a sex columnist. Okay, well, that's not really the confession. I'm sort of, kind of—I'm a virgin…sex columnist.

I'm having a panic attack.

Well, at least I think I'm having a panic attack. Rapidly beating heart that shows no sign of slowing? Yes. Inability to breathe resulting in the strangest sounds known to man escaping my lips? Yes. Fingers shaking so badly that it took three attempts to press my button on the elevator? Yup. Feeling totally and completely detached from my surroundings? Um, well, I'm standing in front of my apartment door with no recollection of the subway ride and ten minute walk that brought me here…so, yeah, that too.

Crap.

Definitely a panic attack.

"Bridget!" I call through the front door. She's my roommate, my best friend, and in this moment, my hopeful savior. But there's no answer.

"Bridget!" I call again, flinching at the high-pitched shriek.

Is that my voice?

Oh god, my throat is tightening. I can hardly breathe. Is my vision going too? I cannot pass out in the hallway with my keys still in my hands. What would my neighbors think? What if someone robs me? I'd be prime bait. What if—?

I shake my head. So not the time for that. I need to breathe. Just breathe and get the door open. Easy, right? I force my hand to still long enough to shove the key in the lock and jiggle the knob until finally it clicks. With one hard shove, the door swings open and I jump inside, falling back against the wood just as it slams shut.

I close my eyes.

I breathe.

I'm home, finally.

"Bridge, are you here?" My voice already sounds smoother, calmer. But my heart is still thumping painfully in my chest—this isn’t over, not until I tell her the truth, not until I tell someone the truth.

I'm a farce.

A complete and utter farce.

An answering grunt comes from the kitchen. She must be eating, but that's okay because that means she won't be able to say anything until I'm done. Or she’ll spit her food out all over the floor that I washed yesterday.

Worth the risk.

"Bridge, I need to tell you something and I don't want you to say anything until I'm done because I'm freaking out and if I don't say it now I'm not sure I ever will. Okay?"

Silence. Good, she agrees.

Opening my eyes, I push off the door and spare a glance at our galley kitchen as I make my way to our small living room. The fridge is open, and she must be behind it because I hear someone rummaging through the food. But that's good, because it'll be easier to say this without having to look at her. After all, I've been lying to her for the better part of three years. Lying—to my best friend!

And here comes the hyperventilating again.  

"Okay, so," I start as I fall onto the couch and bury my head between my knees. I read somewhere that it's calming, but it doesn’t seem to be doing much now. Maybe I'm supposed to close my eyes? But all that does is start a somewhat nauseating dizzy spell. Open, definitely keeping them open. I start to count the lines in the hardwood floor below my feet—why haven’t we bought a carpet yet? We've lived here for three months already.

I shake my head—so not the point.

Just spit it out.

"Okay, Bridge, well the thing is, I told you something a few years ago because I was embarrassed and at the time it seemed like no big deal, like something I would fib about for a little while, but soon enough it would be true and it wouldn't really be a fib anymore. Anyway something happened today and I need your help, but in order to get your help, I need to tell you the truth about this fib, that grew into a lie, that exploded into this constant gnawing at the back of my mind because I was keeping a secret from my best friend. Does that make sense?"