Page 201 of Wait for Him

"Thank you for clarifying your criminal intent," I call after her, then turn back to Gerald. "What's wrong?"

I realize he's still holding my hand from helping me out of the car. Instead of letting go, he closes both of his around it.

"Ms. Rose, I've been driving for you a long time, and us drivers, well, we see a lot and don't say much." He pauses, and I get the distinct impression he's been rehearsing this speech in traffic. "You've come a long way. You're lighter now. Brighter than I've ever seen you. And I don't say this as your driver. I say it as your friend. If walking into that church is going to undo any of that, then it's not worth the price of admission."

My throat tightens.

"I've come to care about you and your family a great deal, and I want to be sure you're alright. So I'm staying right here. If you need to leave at any point, for any reason, you walk back out those doors and this car will be waiting. No questions. No explanations owed."

"Gerald. Goddamnit."

I wrap my arms around his waist and press my cheek against his chest. "You sappy fucker."

His laugh rumbles under my ear.

"Thank you," I say into his lapel. "Really. Please stay."

"Yes, ma'am."

He steps back and folds his arms behind him, settling beside the car like he plans to personally guard my escape route for the next several hours.

I turn toward the cathedral doors. Jade is waiting there with one hand already extended toward me.

So that's the situation.

One best friend. One driver refusing to leave. Two perfectly functional exits.

I can do this.

I take Jade's hand and walk inside.

Jackson

"Holy shit, man. Are you having a panic attack?" Joe asks, his face folding into genuine concern.

"Am I? Is that what this is?" I suck in another breath that doesn't seem to go anywhere and pull at my collar. "It's so hot in here. Why is it so fucking hot?"

"You're standing directly in front of a fan," Bennet says, a hand landing flat on my back. "Breathe, man."

"I'm literally breathing." I yank at the collar again, and the room tilts a degree. "Fuck. I can't breathe."

Bennet throws his hands in the air like I'm the problem here.

This is all his fault anyway. I don't exactly know the math behind it, but it is. Him and his nursery wall and his be certain and his goddamn couch. Motherfucker.

"Okay." Joe steers me down onto the little bench by the mirrors, crouching in front of me like a corner man between rounds. "In through the nose, four seconds. You're not dying. You're just—" He glances up at Bennet over my head, and something passes between them that neither of them says out loud.

They both know what this is.

Hell, I know what this is.

I know exactly what this is, and knowing is not helping, knowing is making it worse, because my body figured this out three weeks ago and I just — kept ironing shirts. Kept confirming caterers. Kept convincing Rian that this was real, that she didn’t have to worry about Rose. That the Rose chapter in my life was over and we were starting ours.

There are three hundred people out there. Three hundred. Filing into pews right now. Someone is handing out programs with my name on them. There's a cake. There's a cake the size of a filing cabinet and a string quartet tuning up and forty minutes — no. I check my watch. Thirty-eight. Thirty-eight minutes, and my mouth has had three weeks, three weeks, to say one sentence to one person, and it said the opposite, so now my body is saying the silent thing for me in the only language it has left, which is heatstroke.

The fan is blowing directly on me.

I am dying in front of a fan.