Breakaway

Chapter 1 - Breakaway

DANA

Amani's Family-Style Italian Restaurant was nearly empty. Not surprising, considering it was three o'clock on a Thursday afternoon in the middle of February. It wasn't the sort of place you'd expect someone to take a date for Valentine's Day—more the type of place you'd have a family reunion. But today wasn't Valentine's Day. That was tomorrow. And we weren't on a date. Far from it.

The only people in the restaurant other than the two of us and the staff were a retired couple seated near the windows. He had his nose buried in a newspaper, and she was knitting an incredibly ugly orange scarf. They were both ignoring the half full bowl of spaghetti and red sauce on the table between them, not to mention each other.

I looked at the door and made note of all the tables and chairs between it and me, mapping an exit path in my mind.

As soon as the waitress dropped off our drinks and walked away, Eric looked across at me. He cocked up a brow and gave me that always-ready half-smile I knew so well. "So what's this about, kid? I didn't think I'd see you any time soon. Not until the summer, at least." He left unspoken what we were both thinking: not here in Portland instead of in Providence.

He took a long draw from his water glass, and I tried to focus on all the familiarities: the loose-fitting, long-sleeved, navy-blue T-shirt that didn't quite mask all the muscle underneath; the stubble-lined jaw that proved he hadn't shaved in a day or so; the dark, almost-black hair that should have been cut over a month ago; the recent scar and corresponding bruise just below his left eye from taking a high stick in a game against Chicago last week; the way his left hand always looked ready to deliver an uppercut to a guy on the other team.

Focusing on those things helped me calm down, to slow my pulse and remember that this was Eric Zellinger, a man who had been my brother's best friend since they played peewee hockey together back home in Rhode Island. He'd been in my life nearly as long as I could remember.

Eric was safe. I could trust him. He was the only man in my life who I trusted implicitly, at least of the ones who weren't family. That's why I chose him.

"Does Soupy know you're here?" He set his glass down and unrolled the linen napkin from around his silverware, situating everything just so.

That was another bit of familiarity: Soupy. He'd called my brother, Brenden, that for forever, or at least it seemed that way. There's some unwritten rule in the hockey world that if your last name is Campbell, your teammates will inevitably call you Soupy. Girls weren't exempt from crazy hockey-nicknaming rules, either. I'd been called that by some of the girls' teams I played for, back before it all happened.

Even though I was trying to focus on the familiar, the comfortable, the safe, it was hard to the point of being nearly impossible. My tongue felt three times its normal size, and no matter how much I swallowed, I couldn't seem to stop the saliva from rapidly filling my mouth. I reached for my water glass to buy time and garner courage, but my hand was shaking like a 6.0 earthquake and I knocked over the glass.

Eric was on his feet before I could react. He righted it and used his napkin to dry the mess I'd made.

"Damn it. I'm sorry." That was all I could get out. I could feel that all-too-familiar heat creeping up my face—not a blush, nothing as simple and understandable as that, but the onset of a panic attack. My breaths came fast and shallow. I couldn't get enough air into my lungs. I had to get out of there. I had to leave. I couldn't—

"Dana?"

Eric's hand came down over mine. Not forcefully. But firm. Secure.

Safe.