Trying

Chapter Three

"Who is it that you're going with?" Mom asked me on Friday afternoon, as I tried cleaning out my purse for the impending mall trip. I cringed at the quantity of words in the question. Mom wasn't as good at words as I was. "It's not..." she trailed off. Mom, though I'd never told her anything, knew not to ask about Garret.

"No, it's this guy in my creative writing class. His name's Iain Oldman," I explain, and before I've even finished, she's opened her mouth to begin the interrogation process. I hate to say it, but Mom is such a walking mom stereotype.

"Who are his parents?"

"I don't know. I think his mom is an elementary school teacher, though."

"How old is he?"

"Seventeen, same as me."

"Is he a writer, too?"

"Yes."

"Does he smoke?"

"No."

"Drink?"

"No."

"Does he have tattoos?"

"None that I can see, Mom."

"Do you think he has tattoos?"

"No."

"Does he have a car?"

"Yes."

"Does he have a girlfriend?"

"No."

"Does he have a boyfriend?"

I crack a small smile at that one. "Not likely."

Mom starts laughing like moms do at this sort of thing. "I don't like him like that, Mom," I complain before she can continue her line of questioning. Her eyes soften and lips curl up in a subtle, proud smile.

"Good. You need time and space for what you're going through."

I so admired Mom for her wisdom and dedication to raising me well. We nearly never fought, and when we did, it always ended in tearful apologies. Ever since Dad left, she's been so much happier, and we've gotten along so well as just the two of us. Never mind that I've had to work at the library to help pay for necessities. We were doing absolutely fine on our own.

"I see him outside," Mom spoke, eyes fixed through the window behind me on where the rusty old car had pulled up.

I hurriedly packed the rest of my things and went to put on my shoes and coat when Iain was ringing the doorbell. I could see him through the window, and he was perfectly intent on meeting my mom, apparently, since his smile brightened as soon as she answered the door.

"Why?" I mouthed as he made polite introductions with my mom.

He winked at me subtly, relishing in my embarrassment as he complimented the front entryway. Smooth, Iain.

"Well, I'd love to stay and talk, but we should get going before it starts getting busy," Iain concluded just as I pulled on a coat. It felt oddly like he was sneaking me out of the house, even though my mom was fully aware of all of our plans. Maybe that was just something about Iain's villainous aura. I cracked a smile at the thought, trying to imagine Iain as a stereotypical 50's bad boy with leather jacket, motorcycle, and all. It just wouldn't suit him.

"Bye, Mom. I'll text you when I get there," I said. Then I allowed for a quick hug before I exited, pursued by an Iain.

His car smelled like cut grass. Like Garret. I try to brush it off.

"Your mom's nice," Iain commented as we pulled out of the driveway.

"Yeah, we actually get along pretty well," I replied hesitantly. Iain did make conversation easier, but only a little. I still have trouble not embarrassing myself in front of him.

"So do my mom and I. Does that mean we defy the laws of teenager-parent interaction?" Iain asks sarcastically. "How horrifically respectful are we."

The rest of the car ride happens in silence, save for the fuzzy radio music sputtering out of his radio. When we reached the parking lot, I clutched my purse nervously. Iain takes some of the edge off of this trip by joking about the stupid ear of corn statue standing in front of the main doors. The people always smoking there still scare me.

"So, where do you want to eat first?" Iain forced me away from my snowballing paranoia, and redirected it into something more pleasant: food.

"Panera Bread?" I suggested. Iain laughed, and my chest clenched as I tried to cover up my sudden dumb insecurity.

"No, it's not you," Iain assured, and the tension lightened. "It's the name. Panera translates to 'bread'. The restaurant is literally called Bread Bread."

"And that's amusing?" I breathe once he's started walking, but somehow he heard. I'm starting to think Iain has super-hearing powers.

"Do you need me to explain the humor? It's the same word twice. It's a repeated word. It's redundant."

"Like you just were?" I say before I can stop myself, and I'm afraid I might've offended him before he starts laughing. His laugh is probably one of the most comforting sounds I've ever heard. He stands next to me in the line, composing himself from my lame comeback.

"You're clever, Emily," he says, and I smile.

For a half second I can revel in the unattached compliment. Then comes the flood of memories of Garret's praises, then Garret's harshness, then Garret's rejection of me, and I'm drowning in the past. I can't breath. I've had attacks like these before, and often they were triggered by something insignificant. But right now I'm just trying, and failing, to hold it together.

"You okay?" Iain asks, then fidgets with his hands before settling them at his side.

I nod, still unable to speak through my closed-up throat. Iain doesn't believe me, and maybe some part of me is thankful for that. But right now my heart is beating like a train clicking quickly over tracks and I'm certain I'm going to die then and there. Strangely, I'm more worried about the headlines of news stories about my death than my death itself. "Girl suffocates in line for local Bread Bread" doesn't have a good ring to it.

"Do you need to sit down?" Iain insists, and I nod as we sink to the floor. The people around us are starting to stare, and it only thickens my anxiety. "Are you having a panic attack?" Iain whispers, remaining mostly calm. I nod, then force myself to inhale and exhale at a constant tempo.

Iain politely asks the people in line to stop looking, and gives soothing instructions to me.

"Just breathe like normal, Emily. Inhale for four seconds. Hold that breath for eight. Exhale for seven seconds. Focus on my voice. Inhale, one, two, three, four. You're doing great, now hold seven, six , five, four..."

It's over before the worst part comes, but I'm still left shaking on the floor as people weave around us. Iain stays knelt beside me, telling me how great I handled it, when he was the one to praise.

"Thank you," I say genuinely as he helps me up. "Where did you learn how to do that?"

"My mom sometimes has them. Dad taught me when I was really young, so that I could help her when he wasn't there."

I can tell it's a bitter-sweet memory for him, and I feel sorry. Then again, all of my memories under the realm of panic attacks have been plainly bitter.

"Do you still want to try for Bread Bread?" he suggests, brushing off the conversation like it was about chemistry homework.

I manage a smile, but mostly just to show my gratitude to him. "I'm feeling more Arby's now," I answer, still catching glimpses of people looking our way. Arby's was on the other side of the food court.

"Sounds fantastic."