Emma That is Dead (FREE!)

Chapter Eighteen

"Oh." He leans back, and plants his hands on the table.

A chill crawls over my hips where his grip used to be. I meet his gaze. "I found out more about what happened."

After I recount the details of last night's conversation, Smith lets out a slow breath. "Woah. I knew it had to be bad, but to hear you say it out loud. Shit." He scrubs a hand over his face.

"Right?" I drum my fingers against his thighs, and lower my voice to a raspy whisper, even though there's no one around to overhear. "She seemed different to me. Harsher, maybe? Or more irritable? Cooper nipped her hand and she shoved him off the bed like he was some kind of—" I shake my head, still not knowing what to think. "Emma would have never done that before."

"We knew she would probably be different. That whatever happened would change her."

"I know, but it's weird. Like it wasn't even her."

It sounds crazy. She mentions the past with no problem, and all of our memories are still the same. But something about Emma's not. It's gone, and I'm starting to wonder if she'll ever get it back.

I cross my arms over my chest and nibble the nail on my thumb. "She deserves to know about us. I get why you don't want to say anything yet, but I'm not comfortable keeping it a secret. And if I don't tell her, then I'm basically lying."

Smith frowns and looks away. "I want to be the one to do it. That way if she gets pissed, it's not at you."

Fuck. I hate the idea of leaving this up to him. Emma is my best friend. I should be the one to tell her.

This is the kind of dramatic shit that happens in Netflix movies, not real life. I shrink away from him, brush the hair from my face, lock my knees so they don't buckle underneath me.

If Emma got that mad at Cooper for one little bite, I have no idea how she'll react when she hears this news. What it will do to her, to our relationship. Her recovery.

Panic flutters in my chest. "Then it needs to happen soon, because I can't keep lying to her face."

"Arbor ..." Smith's lips part, his eyes searching my expression. "Not saying anything is not the same as lying."

"But I'm not being honest either!" I glance toward the door. First bell's about to ring, but this classroom should be empty for another hour, when Mrs. Young and her American literature students will flock through the door, their Scarlet Letters and Great Gatsbys tucked in the crooks of their arms.

"Hey." His palm cups my cheek, his fingers curling behind my ear. He turns me to face him. "I'll tell her soon. I owe her an explanation, and I want to make sure she understands. I'll always be there if she needs me—no matter what—but as her friend. Please stop worrying. I promise, everything will work out."

Stop worrying? If only it were that simple.

Smith pushes himself off the table and folds me into a hug. "We better get to class."

I close my eyes, lean into his chest. Try to fight off the tremble moving through me. "I have a meeting with Coach in fifteen minutes. She wants to talk about North Carolina's recruiting process."

He steps back, smiles, looks me in the eye. "Can I walk you to her office?"

I try to smile back. "You should take off so you're not late. I'll see you at lunch, okay?"

"Lunch it is." He brushes his lips to my forehead and walks out the door.

As soon as I'm alone, something in me snaps. The anxiety I've been pushing down flares to the surface, and a flash of heat shoots through my entire body, sending ribbons of sweat down my back.

I lied. I don't have a meeting with Coach, I just can't get myself to move. I can barely even breathe. A crushing weight presses against my chest, and pins and needles take over my hands and feet.

Smith loves me. He may not have said it, but he does. He wants to be with me, not Emma.

Please God, don't let him be with Emma!

There's a ringing in my ears and my chest heaves in rapid successions, drowning out my thoughts. I need to calm down. Take a cleansing breath, and count. Exactly how my doctor taught me.

One Mississippi.

Two Mississippi.

Three Mississippi.

Four.

This panic, these self-defeating logics. They aren't mine. They belong to the ugly thing inside of me, the thing that goes crazy when it thinks it's under attack.

Except it's not under attack. It's not.

It's been a long time since my anxiety hit this hard. But I can overcome it, just like I did before.

Five Mississippi.

Six.

I inhale, bend at the knees, brace my hand against the desk. Exhale.

It doesn't help. My stomach continues to roll, vomit burning the back of my throat. I swallow it down and gag.

Dr. Wilder used to tell me that my panic attacks weren't real. Not really. Only if I gave them power. It's the body reacting as if there's a threat, even when there's not. It's a lie. A deception. A sheep in wolf's clothing. I'm not really going crazy, it only feels like I am.

Don't give it power.

The scorching heat thrumming through me is replaced by a sudden flash of cold. Goosebumps prick beneath my clothing, rippling along my flesh. I sink to the floor, scoot on my bottom until I'm pressed against the wall. With ragged breaths, I continue to count Mississippis as a poster of Little Women stares down from the cabinet, four sets of sisterly eyes judging me from the shiny vinyl.

I can't fall down this hole again. Not now, when there's so much to lose. All that work I put in couldn't have been for nothing. If my parents find out, they'll send me back to Dr. Wilder. Force me to take more pills. And I can't do that again. I won't.

But that's the problem with insanity. Once it comes out of hiding, it doesn't ever go away.

Not really.