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His friends order, throwing their cash in a pile on the bar top. “For you?” I ask after I’ve handed the other drinks off and he still hasn’t spoken up. He checks over his shoulder, watching his friends walk over to the dart board.
“O’Doul’s, please. In a glass.” His voice gives no hint of the friendliness that I’m used to. It’s a slap to the face.
“O’Doul’s doesn’t have alcohol,” I snap.
“I know.” He watches me under the brim of his faded baseball hat, not giving anything away. I nod my head stiffly and pour his beer into a glass, sliding it across the counter to him.
“$4.00.” My tone gives the same amount of effort as his. None.
He throws a twenty-dollar bill on the bar and grabs his beer before walking away. “Keep it.”
I’d normally feel flattered to receive such a big tip, but after being given the cold shoulder, I’m insulted. Am I some sort of charity case? Is that why he was being nice to me in the beginning?
Did he feel sorry for me?
He’s acting like he doesn’t even know who I am and it’s humiliating.
I’m wiping down the bar aggressively, thankful that most of the other customers are leaving when I miss the hand coming my way.
“I said, I wanted a whiskey.” The drunk guy grabs my wrist with what feels like all of his strength, locking his grip on me.
I only have a second to feel the biting pain before my body locks up and full-blown fear sets in. This can’t happen, not here. No. No. NO!
It’s too late and I realize I’ve screamed the word ‘no’ out loud. Heads turn my way as my vision starts to blur. Like a trapped animal, I tug desperately at my wrist, trying to free it. It doesn’t budge. This can’t happen. Not again.
My heart’s pounding in my chest, feeling dangerously close to exploding. “Let me go. Let me go. Let me go,” I chant over and over again between ragged breaths.
The air is heaving in and out of my lungs so violently that my throat is on fire.
My eardrums ring, drowning out the noise of the rest of the bar.
Like an out-of-body experience, I see my panic attack escalating as if I were watching from one of the bar stools.
I’m so familiar with my routine that I see it in my sleep. I’ve experienced it multiple times in my dreams, reliving old nightmares. Despite the familiarity, it wrecks me every time.
Strobe lights are flashing in front of my eyes and I know that I’m close to passing out when the black speckles outweigh the light. It’s usually the final stage before I collapse.
My eyes will roll back in my head and I’ll slump to the floor. All I can hope is that I won’t hit my head on the way down.
The lights are blurring and everything around me is fading…
Right before my vision goes totally black, my wrist is freed.
On instinct, I’m stumbling away from the bar on rubber legs, trying to escape. I keep moving, hardly holding myself upright as I crash through the double doors that lead to the storage area in the back.
That’s the last thing I remember before the room completely disappears.
Chapter Thirteen
Jesse
Aquick Facebook search confirmed my suspicions. My Thea Wolfe is Nathan’s sister, without a doubt. Only a few months ago she posted a photo with her mom for Mother’s Day. His mom, whom I’ve met.
After my discovery, I spent hours studying every picture. Throwback photos to her childhood, quite a few of her and one other girl most likely from their early college days, and one of her standing in front of the New Hope library with her hands raised up in celebration. She’s so full of light in every single one.
My head aches with the weight of my guilt. How could I get involved with my best friend’s little sister?
Nathan and I have watched each other’s backs for years, we’ve taken turns saving each other’s asses. I trust him with my life. He trusts me with his.
