Page 8 of Icebound

Sometimes it hibernates, and other days, it claws its way out to attack my thoughts. I never know what mood the devious creature will be in, so the only thing I can do is drag myself out of the mental ditch over and over again.

No one else can fight my battles. All I want is someone who sees the darkest corners of my soul and doesn’t get scared off by the cobwebs.

Anxiety might suck me into the whirlpool of my life, but I always come up for air.

After what feels like a millennium of breathing techniques, my heart rate returns to normal. I glance at the time on my phone. “Hm. Not bad. That one was only six minutes.”

Those words are like calling a tornado a fall breeze, but I’m proud of all the work I put in while sitting on Dr. Ghosh’s lumpy green chair with that stain shaped like Italy. Therapy might not be a cure-all, but it does come with a decent side of coping mechanisms.

Now that I’m sufficiently sweaty and exhausted, I dig through the console and grab some tissues to dab the sweat under my arms. I refuse to step outside looking like chaos incarnate in front of the plumber who must bench press toilets when he’s not fixing them.

Wrapping my thrifted puffy jacket around my shoulders, I head out onto the packed residential street. The freezing Tennessee wind nips at my cheeks.

Pedestrians line the sidewalk, maintaining a respectful distance, but their eyes are fixed on the plumber. When I see him, I can’t blame them for staring.

This man looks like he was handcrafted with temptation.

He’s rolled up his sleeves, even though it’s frigid, revealing the thick veins lining his forearms like a map leading to a naughty destination. How’s he not freezing his ass off? He’s got that type of muscle definition that only comes from hours spent in the gym, and if anything, the dedication’s impressive.

The man’s got it all—broad shoulders, neck veins, sharp jawline. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had fuckboy tattooed on his dick.

I search his face for a flaw, any flaw, I’ll even take an oddly shaped mole. My shoulders loosen when I see the slight bump in his nose like it’s been broken.

As I navigate through the crowd, I notice several people with phones raised, but I’m more concerned with the man hunched over the black Tahoe.

“Is that the guy from that underwear commercial?”

“No, I think he’s from that yacht scandal.”

“I thought he was retiring from the League?”

My curiosity piques, but I have no idea what league they’re talking about, so I ignore them and nudge my way through the onlookers.

Sexy Plumber’s brow is pinched in concentration, and a sudden wave of gratitude washes over me. Without him, I'd probably be dead. Either that, or I'd be sitting here, freezing my ass off while googling how to change a tire to help the other car.

As I get closer, I realize he’s actually huddled over a little boy who looks like he’s hyperventilating next to his terrified mom. It’s probably how I looked moments ago, so without a second thought, I push through the last two people. “Is everything okay? What happened?”

He gives me a tight smile lined with worry. “Yeah, we’re alright. This is Gabriel and his mom. They were in the other car when their tire popped, and Gabriel here has asthma. He got a little scared, and I can’t blame him because I did too, but he’s having an asthma attack. He doesn’t have his inhaler, so we’re waiting on an ambulance.”

His tone is calm, but there’s a deep crease between his brows. I wrack my brain, and this is one of the few times I’m actually grateful for my sleepless nights and the internet rabbit holes I spiral down. “Wait here.”

I rush back to my car and dig through the console until I find my sister’s leftover cold brew that could bring a corpse back to life. I avoid caffeine like I avoid alcohol, but she’s a coffee addict.

Grabbing it, I sprint back to the mom and her son. The crowd parts for me in the way people normally part for my older sister.

I thrust out the drink to the boy’s mom. “Here, I know it’s not his medication, but I read that caffeine can help open up the airways in asthma patients.”

The plumber balks. “I forgot. I should’ve just asked you from the beginning.”

I don’t know what he means by that comment, but the mom gives me a grateful smile and pulls me into a hug, thanking me profusely. “Thank you. Thank you so much. You’re truly a lifesaver.”

My eyes prickle as she releases me. Anxiety’s never made me someone’s hero. I better soak up this moment, so I can remember it the next time I can’t sleep.

The woman huddles over her son, giving him sips of the coffee, and then sirens shriek through the cold night like the wrong note plucked in a symphony. Red and blue lights paint the street as the ambulance arrives.

The next thirty minutes are a jumbled mess.

People crowd around the cars. Cameras flash. A few people even ask to take pictures with the plumber, which is strange, but maybe he’s got a home renovation show. It must be a slow news night because a reporter shows up for some reason.