Ace Huxley's Daughter

29

The air felt a little heavier this morning. I spoke with dad last night before we went out and I know they were getting into the hotel around 1am so when there was a lot of noise in the hallways in the middle of the night, I knew it was them and my anxiety was immediately sent through the 4 floors above us and out of the roof. I'd struggled to get back to sleep even with Sonny's body smothering me.

For 2 weeks I'd been able to fight off my worries. I didn't have anyone telling me I needed to focus on what I wanted, no one asking me for an update, no one telling me I was making a stupid mistake. Only mum and I'd managed to avoid all but 2 of her calls and one of those was an 8am, half asleep, didn't even look who was calling mishap.

But I know the second I see dad today, that's going to be the first thing he wants to know. If I'd changed my mind about going back to uni and retraining, about leaving that life behind and moving on from it finally.

As stupid as it seemed I'd worked out I found some kind of pathetic comfort in knowing what was going to happen. I'd probably end up married to Conrad, 2 kids and a white picket fence. I'd be driving the kids to football practices and swim team and horse-riding classes and tutors and he'd be working cases with my mum. I'd go to yoga with other mums from school and drink smoothies and have my hair up in a tight high ponytail and we'd talk about the latest diet craze and how we were getting on with starving our bodies so our husbands didn't want to replace us with someone younger and thinner. I'd have dinner on the table for the second he got home and I'd serve it with a smile and bathe the kids and put them to bed and then pour him a drink and listen to him ramble about his day.

I knew how it would go. I had read the manual. Mum had gone over it constantly. I'd watched the TV shows and movies and listened to other people tell me how great that was. To never have to lift a finger.

But if the past 2 weeks has shown me anything, it's how little I want to be stuck in that. I want my kids to grow up and take on the world with such an insane amount of confidence that people look at them and think, damn, Ace Huxley's grandkids really took rockstar to a whole new level. I want them to see the world from the back of a van and have visited more countries than they are in age.

I want them to be like me before it happened. Before Alex and the bedroom and those disgusting grey sheets and that drink and the tears. I want them to be happy. Happy like I've been the past 2 weeks with Sonny. Happy and free and confused and free.

I want them to be 20 something and sat in a field in some far-off country grumbling because I'm checking in on them and asking them if they're being safe. I want them to know their bodies and minds better than I do. I want them to trust their decisions more than I do. I want them to know in their bones what the right choice for them is and I hope they never have to make a decision like I'm having to make because it's hurting. It's breaking me down to each individual rib feeling cracked and I can't breathe. I can't breathe.

"Pops?" Oh no. "Cal, are you okay? You're breathing really really heavy babe." Sonny pulled on my shoulder as I tried to force my lungs open. "Nice and slow for me Cal. Can you do that?"

Try Callie. Come on. I took a slow breath but it wasn't enough. I can't-

Sonny pull me down the bed slightly, turning for just a second and shaking my inhaler.

"2 for me Pops." I can't believe this was happening. I'd avoided this for years. YEARS. How the hell did it just come on so fast.

"I need-" My words fell flat as I fought to sit myself up, taking the inhaler from him and taking it. One. Breathe. Slow. Two. Breathe. Slow. He watched me carefully, brain tick tocking in his head. It wasn't working. I could feel that it wasn't working. Everything was getting worse and I couldn't stop the panicking and I know that wasn't going to help a damn thing but it was heavy and my lungs feel like they're being filled with lead and it burns. I looked at the inhaler, hunting for a date. So old I can barely see it. "Spare."

"You have a spare?" I nodded. "Where?" I can barely speak Sonny!

"Bag." I focused on him. Not a single slither of worry on him as I felt like I was about to collapse. "Shower." He jumped out of bed, calm and collected, returning a second later with my makeup bag and emptying the contents on the bed, shaking the new one and handing it over. "Dad."

"You need your dad?" I nodded. This spare would ease it but it wasn't going to stop an attack this bad. This was a hospital trip. I knew it. It was bad. Probably one of the worst I'd ever had. Sonny reached for his phone, holding it to his ear as he pulled on underwear, jeans, socks, and shoes, pulling the phone back every few seconds to dial again.

Don't panic Callie. Panicking isn't going to help a thing. You're not alone this time. You've caught it. You're treating it. It's not going to get worse now you've got the inhaler that's not 3 years out of date.

I moved slowly to pull on trackies and any random shirt I could find. Anything so I wasn't being pulled through a hotel naked.

"Ace? It's Emerson. It's Olive, something's wrong."