"Breathe. Jess, you have to breathe."
I continue to make wheezing sounds as Bay's face swims before me. I must be imagining things, seeing what I want to see. Why would Bay be here, helping me, in the middle of his celebration?
"I—? W-what?" I stutter through trembling lips.
"Don't speak, Jess. You just have to breathe, okay? That's all you have to do." He sinks further into the dirt and holds out his open palm so that it hovers an inch or so away from my chest. "Can you take a deep breath and try to reach my hand?"
I can barely hear him over the pounding in my ears, but I try to do as he asks, desperate for air. My first attempt at a deep breath barely brushes his palm.
"Good," he says softly, moving his palm a little bit farther away. "Again."
While at the moment I have no idea what Bay is trying to do, I find that it's slowly becoming easier to catch my breath as he draws his hand further away and my lungs are forced to expand to meet the distance. Finally, after about five minutes, I feel the rest of my body starting to relax. The anxiety hasn't left entirely, but at least I don't feel like I'm on the verge of passing out. Realizing that the worst is over, Bay lowers his hand and remains kneeling beside me. I notice that dark, sticky mud is now staining his jeans. Still, he doesn't move. Doesn't leave me alone in the dirt.
"Thank you," I mumble, unable to look at him. My face warms with embarrassment as everything hits home all at once. Oh, God. As if I weren't already pathetic enough, it only took three exchanged words with my ex to send me into a full-out spiral. And, of course, who should come to my rescue but Hemlock Landing's golden boy, Bay Connor. Right now, the irony that he's famous for playing a superhero isn't lost on me.
"You don't have to thank me." Bay unfortunately still sounds concerned, even though I'm perfectly happy to go on pretending that the last ten minutes never happened. "Are you able to stand? We need to get you some help."
"Help? No, Bay, I'm fine." Bay quirks a skeptical eyebrow and scans me head-to-toe. I can tell by the look in his eyes that he's not buying what I'm selling.
"You're sure?"
"Yes," I insist, climbing to my feet just to prove it. Except the lack of oxygen has weakened me, and I stumble to the side — which definitely doesn't help my case. Before I completely topple over, Bay launches himself to his feet and catches my weight.
I'm nearly knocked breathless again as I'm enveloped by the heat of his arms and the solid press of his chest against my back in a pose that feels too scripted to happen in real life. Our eyes meet for the briefest of moments — brown and electric blue — and I feel something good stir in my chest. Something that I think I might want more of.
But then I look away to the throng of fangirls and the cheerful banners and Vivian, who seems to be scouring the crowd for somebody, and I'm sharply yanked out of the fantasy. Oh, hell no, Jess. Don't even go there. He is not Superman, and you are definitely not Lois Lane.
I quickly extricate myself from his arms and clear my throat, brushing the leaves and dirt from my clothes in the most natural way possible. I don't know how to satisfy Bay's concern for me without rehashing everything that happened between Dylan and I or explaining my recent history of panic attacks, which sounds just about as pleasant as pulling out my own teeth with nail clippers. So I just give him a paper-thin smile and say, "I think I'm just going to head home for the night. Tell my parents I'm not feeling well, okay?"
But Bay doesn't nod or agree or walk off into the celebration that's raging behind us in his honor. He doesn't move an inch, except for the slight furrowing of his brow. "Wait, you're just going to go home? Alone?"
"Umm, yeah? I'm a big girl now."
"Are you sure that's the best thing?"
"I told you, I'm fine." I insist. Unfortunately, at the same time, I catch sight of Dylan and Arya participating in a very enthusiastic PDA session near the portable PA system, which sends my stomach roiling again. I squeeze my eyes shut, cheeks flushing, and Bay notices every second of it.
He crosses his arms over his magnificently broad chest, and I wait for him to demand yet again that I let him find me some help, whatever that means. Instead, Bay sighs and says, "You can go home, but I'm coming with you." Now, that catches me off guard. Rage flares through me as he continues to stand there like he's my bodyguard or something.
"Excuse me? I already told you, I don't need—"
"What if this isn't about you?" He asks, and though his words are sharp there's a playfulness in his eyes. "What if I want to play hooky?"
"Hooky?" What the hell is he talking about? Rolling his eyes, he nods towards the heart of the crowd, where Vivian is still running around like a mad-woman, searching for...Oh. A teasing smile creeps onto my lips, and now it's Bay's turn to look embarrassed. "I get it now. Hiding from mother dearest, are you?"
"Not hiding." Bay scowls. "Just...Okay, yeah, maybe I am hiding. My mother can track people down like a bloodhound when she wants to."
My grin widens, to his dismay, and I shrug. "I'm sure your avoiding her is completely necessary. Even though I don't know what it is she has planned."
"She wanted me to give this whole speech to kick off Homecoming Week, and to talk about the family legacy, and blah, blah, blah." He rubs at his temples. "I told her I didn't want this entire week to turn into a PR tour, but here we are."
It's a little surprising to hear Bay speak so negatively about Homecoming Week, and I start to wonder if he might be just as disenchanted with it as I am. Or, perhaps, he's just disenchanted with Vivian, which I can't really blame him for. At least so far, she just seems to be using him as a pawn for her own plans of world domination.
"Alright," I finally say. "You stay here. Hide behind this tree, and I'll be right back."
"What? Where are you going?" Bay's voice is hushed, his eyes are wide, and suddenly I'm reminded of all of the times we'd play hide and seek around the Magnolia as kids. It looks like we have some mischief within us, still, and the heaviness within me unravels quicker than before. It's been a long time since I broke the rules, went against my better judgement; I nearly forgot how much fun it can be.
"I'm going to get my car keys," I whisper. "I'll tell my parents I'm not feeling well and that I'm going to go home. I'll insist that Teresa stays and enjoys herself." As much as I love my best friend, she's always been a terrible liar. "And then, we'll make our getaway. Easy peasy."
"And you won't mention me?"
I fix Bay with a blank stare. "Of course not. That would defeat the entire purpose of omitting the truth, now wouldn't it?"
Bay's lips curve in an impish grin. "I like the way you think, Jess Wheeler."
As I walk across the square, towards my family, I find it surprisingly hard to wipe the small smile from my face.
***
They lap up my lies so easily that I would almost feel bad, were it not for the fact that I actually do still feel a little sick to my stomach after the encounter with Dylan. Even Teresa buys it hook, line, and sinker: though there's the slightest suspicious crease between her eyebrows.
By the time I snatch up my bag and head back across the square towards Bay, Vivian has given up searching for him and starts speaking into the grainy microphone plugged into the PA system. "Hello, hello, hello! How's everyone doing tonight?"
I cringe. As if her nasally voice wasn't torture already, now it's loud enough to make my ears ring. I do my best to block it out as I round the tree at the edge of the square and find Bay right where I left him. He's peering around the corner at his mother, a slightly guilty expression on his face, when I dangle the keys in front of him.
"Let's go," I whisper. He grins at me, snapping out of his trance.
"I owe you, Wheeler."
"Let's just say we're even."
It doesn't take us long to slip across the road unnoticed and under the cover of pale moonlight. My car is parallel parked along the main road about half a mile away from the barbecue, so once we're sure no one has noticed us, our paces slow to a comfortable stroll. Even though these are streets I've walked a million times, they feel different at night. And with company. The blossoming Azalea bushes in front of people's homes look a little more beautiful, and the cricket song isn't quite as annoying. As we walk in contented silence, I almost forget about what kick-started this whole escape plan in the first place.
"How did you know what to do?" I ask quietly, glancing sidelong at Bay. His hands are shoved casually in his pockets, but I notice his shoulders bunch the slightest bit.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, with my...What happened earlier. You knew exactly how to help, how to calm me down."
"Oh, that." Bay shrugs but remains silent for nearly a minute before responding. "Believe it or not, I've had my fair share of panic attacks. Coping with them is kind of second nature to me, now."
"Oh," I say, and God there are so many things I want to ask. When did they start, before or after moving to Los Angeles? Does Bay's anxiety stem from the stress of being on camera? Is Vivian a trigger for him, like Dylan is for me? But he looks uncomfortable enough as it is, and it seems insensitive for me to pry when he's not ready. So I just say, "Well, I appreciate it. They used to happen more often and it's been a while, so I kind of forgot how bad they can get. I'm glad you were there."
Bay remains silent, and just as I start to silently kick myself for being so vulnerable, he turns and smiles at me. Not the GQ photoshoot, late-night TV smile that everyone knows and loves; this one is less perfect, and astoundingly familiar. It feels like small, warm tendrils of light are snaking around me on the inside. And then, when I start to feel better than I have in a long, long time, he ruins it all in an instant.
"What happened back there, if you don't mind me asking?" He chews nervously on the inside of his lip. "I saw you talking to a man, and then you—"
"He is no one," I snap, realizing that my walls are still exactly where I left them — surrounding my heart. "Was someone, a while ago. But not anymore."
Bay swallows and nods stiffly. "Ah."
"Trust me, he's dirt. Less than dirt." I feel like a million words are crammed onto the tip of my tongue, begging to be set free, but at the same time I'm trying to figure out if I can trust Bay. If he's still the same boy that left me broken-hearted all of those years ago.
"Okay. I just...If he hurt you, or did anything tonight that upset you, someone should know about it. You shouldn't have to deal with it alone."
"Trust me, he hurt me plenty." We finally reach my car and we both stop outside of it. I turn to face Bay. My hands are freezing cold even though it's hot as Hades out. "But what's done is done. He's moved on, he doesn't give a shit, and frankly, he has every right to feel that way. Even if it makes him an asshole."
Bay watches me silently, obviously struggling to find something to say, but I unlock the car doors and climb inside, slamming it shut. Eventually, Bay climbs in beside me, silent, and I can practically feel the questions radiating from him, his face painted with light and shadow from the nearby street lamp.
Memories of the bad years start to form a tangled mass in my mind and I rest my forehead on the steering wheel, trying to press them out, out, out. But somehow — despite my reservations about Bay — they make their way to my throat and spill over my lips.