Float

Original Edition: Chapter Twenty-Nine

Here are the symptoms of a panic attack.

Accelerated or pounding heart rate, palpitations, sweating. Chest pain or discomfort, shortness of breath, trembling. Nausea. Dizziness. Faintness. Unsteadiness. Derealization—the sense that you are no longer connected to reality—and depersonalization—the sense that you are no longer yourself. Fear of losing control. Fear of death.

I didn't know any of this at the time.

But I knew, instinctively, that Blake wasn't okay.

He stood on the far side of the room, my bed wide as an ocean between us. There were still happier traces from a few minutes ago—the rumpled hair, the twisted shirt, the flush in his cheeks—but now they were buried beneath a blanket of ice-cold panic.

"She's gone," he said, again. "She left."

"I mean," I mumbled, "technically yeah, but—"

Blake interrupted me with a stilted, mangled laugh.

"She didn't even take Isabel!" he cried in disbelief. "She—what a bitch. She left the kid."

Rachel, who was still standing beside the door, took a step toward him with her palms out.

Blake seemed to look right through her.

"She didn't take Isabel because she'll be back," Rachel explained very calmly. "I didn't mean to startle you, Blake. I'm sorry. George was just worried that the two of you had talked at home and things had escalated. That's all. Chloe didn't—"

"She ditched us."

Blake shoved his hands into his already-messy hair, fingers tugging it up into unruly peaks, and shook his head in disbelief. His movements were jerky. Strained. His whole body was a rubber band that'd been pulled too tight, then plucked.

"She wouldn't do that," I pointed out.

"No."

"Seriously, Blake, she—"

"No, no. No."

He buried his face in his hands and rubbed at his eyes. Then he dropped his arms to his sides and started towards my bedroom door with frightening determination.

"I need to—shit," he spun on his heels and rushed back to where he'd left his muddy sneakers under my window. He stood on one foot, then the other, to tug them on. He didn't even bother untying the laces. "I need to borrow your car, Ms. Lyons."

Rachel blinked at him.

"Blake," she said, "I don't think that's a good idea"

It was actually the worst idea, but it seemed like a dick move to make that clarification when Blake was clearly on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

One of the heels of his sneakers was giving him trouble.

He roared with frustration and dropped to the floor to fumble with the laces, eyebrows knit and mouth twisted in a scowl.

"I have to find her," he insisted, shaking his head. "She can't do this to my dad."

"Let's wait until it stops raining," I offered, "and I'll drive you into town."

Blake lurched to his feet, sneakers on, and yanked on his dark green crewneck sweatshirt.

"I'm not waiting," he told me.

And then he turned, yanked open my bedroom window, and slipped out onto the roof. I took two steps after him, then thought better of it, because scaling a roof in the pouring rain seemed like the kind of thing I'd break both my legs attempting.