Page 74 of Hunter

I get dressed in my usual—cropped hoodie, ripped jeans, fresh eyeliner to hide the redness in my eyes. I look… normal. Like nothing happened and I didn’t have a full-blown panic attack while the man I want more than anything was about to fuck me.

Mrs. Lovelady greets me with her usual warm smile when I walk into the store. I smile back. I laugh at her joke about the new shipment of overpriced markers. I help a college kid find the right sketchbook. I move through the day like a ghost wearing my own face.

I check my phone during my break. No messages from Hunter. The silence hurts more than I expected. I’ve been ghosted before after having a panic attack, so it shouldn’t be surprising. Most people don’t want to deal with the possibility of their hookup turning into a sobbing, shaking mess before they even get inside you, and not for a good reason.

Still. It stings.

I stare at our chat for a long time, thumb hovering. Then I type quickly before I can talk myself out of it:

Me: I’m really sorry about last night. I thought I could handle it, and I panicked. You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m sorry I ruined it.

I hit send and immediately lock the screen. I don’t expect a reply. I don’t even know if I want one. Part of me hopes he just fades out quietly. Another, louder part is terrified that’s exactly what’s happening.

I sit there for the rest of my break with my knees pulled up, chewing on my bottom lip. When I finally check the phone again before heading back to the floor, there’s nothing. Only the little “delivered” under my message.

I swallow hard and shove the phone into my pocket.

Mrs. Lovelady notices something’s off when I come back out. She doesn’t push, just quietly sets aside a slightly damaged pack of my favorite charcoal pencils and slides it across the counter with a gentle smile.

“Take these home, sweetheart. You look like you could use them.”

I thank her, voice cracking just a little, and go back to helping customers like everything is fine.

Because that’s what I do.

I smile. I laugh. I pretend.

Even when I’m quietly falling apart on the inside.

When my shift finally ends, Lucy is waiting for me outside the store like always, leaning against the lamppost with a wide smile that feels like home. We have a standing weekly dinner date that I would never cancel, no matter how raw I feel.

She takes one look at me and her smile falters.

“Uh oh,” she says, pushing off the post. “That’s your ‘I’m pretending I’m okay, but I’m one wrong word away from crying’ face. What happened?”

I try to laugh it off, but it comes out weak. “Can we just… get food first? I’m starving.”

She studies me for another second, then loops her arm through mine. “Fine. But you’re spilling everything over pad Thai, or I’m ordering the spiciest thing on the menu and force-feeding you.”

We end up at our usual Thai place, tucked into a corner booth. It’s the same place Hunter brought food from last night. I could eat it every night if given the chance. But the memory of last night makes my stomach sour a little. The second our drinks arrive, Lucy leans forward, chin in her hands.

“Talk.”

I stir the straw in my iced Thai tea, watching the condensation drip down the glass. My throat feels tight again.

“Just some drama,” I say, attempting to smile.

She lifts a single eyebrow and stares at me, waiting for me to say more.

I chew on my lower lip and glance away. “I had a panic attack instead of having sex…and probably scared off a really great guy.”

“Oh, Charlie…” Lucy’s voice softens immediately. She reaches across the table and takes my hand, squeezing it tight. “I’m sorry. That sounds awful. Do you want to talk about it?”

I shake my head, eyes stinging again. “Not the details. Just… it was going really well. Really well. And then my brain decided to throw me back into conversion therapy the second things got intense. I completely froze up and told him to leave.”

Lucy’s thumb rubs gently over my knuckles, the way she always does when I’m spiraling.

“He stopped, right?”