Page 136 of Just for the Cameras
Fuck, I can’t do this.
I lower my head to the steering wheel, my anxiety lacing through melike a disease, spreading rapidly through every vein, taking control of my ability to function.
My breath becomes shorter and shorter.
My vision starts to fade, and I can feel it, the anxiety attack attempting to take hold of me.
Breathe, Graydon. Fucking breathe.
But it’s so goddamn hard, because all I see is her…hurt…begging for help.
Help I couldn’t give her.
Breathe…
I let out a shaky breath and right my mind, try to block out the horror of what I witnessed this weekend, what I felt.Come the fuck on, man.
On another deep breath, I pull out of my garage and head the few blocks to Maple’s apartment. She’s waiting for me at the curb. I glance at the clock, confused, and realize I’m running about five minutes late.
Shit.
I must have gotten lost in my thoughts.
She opens the door, and with a fucking gorgeous smile, she says, “Good morning—oh my God, what happened to your eye?”
Right.
I forgot about that.
“Nothing,” I grumble and wait for her to buckle up before I pull out onto the road.
“Graydon,” she says softly. “That’s a really bad cut.”
Yeah, I know.
Rhonda put some butterfly strips over it for me yesterday, encouraging me to go get it looked at, but I didn’t give a shit. I wanted to be alone, so that was what I did.
And the throbbing above my eye last night was nothing compared to the agony in my heart. I welcomed the eye pain, anything to keep the anguish balanced.
Instead of answering her, I turn up the music in the truck, some bullshit top hit playing, so I don’t have to talk to her. Explain to her what happened yesterday. Because she’d press. That’s the kind of person she is—she’d want to help fix it. And there’s nothing to fix.
I’ve tried.
I’ve spoken to every doctor.
I’ve met with every specialist money could buy.
And nothing.
We drive to the facility, not speaking a word to each other, just the way I wanted it. I’m not up for chatting, not with my mom’s screams plaguing me. Not with the image of her cheek pressed against the floor branded in my brain. I just need to get out some aggression to calm my racing pulse. And practice will do that for me.
Once I park, I hop out, and Maple does the same, meeting me at the back of the truck. I can feel her eyes on me and sense the questions on the tip of her tongue.
Don’t do it, Maple.
Please don’t fucking press me.
I can’t…I can’t expose you to this. Please, please don’t ask.
