Blaze

Three; Blaise

I'm dying. This is it. This is how it all ends for me - sitting on a random bench in this God-forsaken town. The day my dad and I left Adair, I promised myself I would never return, yet here I sit, alone, practically orphaned and dying in the town I've loathed for most of my existence. It's kind of poetic, really, dying less than a mile from the spot I was born.

It started the way it always starts, with a trigger. While I anticipated an attack at some point today, I didn't think it would be provoked by a pastry. But there it was: a chocolate croissant. I was lost in a memory when I started to feel that familiar pressure in my chest. My hands started shaking as I mapped my escape route. I knew from experience I had minutes, maybe less, before the tightness would spread throughout my chest and it would be a struggle to breathe. I didn't want that to happen in there. Not then. Not with him a few feet behind me.

I don't know who the tall, bearded adonis in line behind me was. But I could feel his eyes on me as I waited in line. His presence made me nervous. His intense gaze made it almost impossible to focus on my order, and I'm sure it didn't help the inevitable panic attack that had been slowly building since I woke this morning.

Logically, I know that's what's happening - I'm just having a panic attack. But damn if I don't feel like I'm dying. It always feels like I'm dying.

I put my head down, between my knees. "Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out," I remind myself. It's not working. My therapist suggested I visualize the ocean when this happens. The ocean sucks the waves into her belly. Breathe in. The waves crash down on the beach. Breathe out. This works for a few seconds, then I feel the familiar burn. The fire slithers up my sternum and spreads across my chest, morphing into an intense, stabbing pain. Tears sting the back of my eyes. I clutch my chest and look up, squeezing my eyes shut and willing myself not to cry.

The world around me blurs. I exist only in a hazy fog. I hear sounds around me but can't make them out. A car horn? A door slamming? A voice maybe? I close my eyes and wait for the pain to ebb. It does, slowly. As the ache in my chest wanes, I feel a pressure on my legs. I look down and open my eyes. 

Hands? Large masculine hands are resting on the top of my thighs, just above my knees. They gently squeeze. I should be alarmed that a strange man is touching me, but I really need this. Every time the background starts to blur, the hands squeeze. It's as if the man attached to these hands knows I'm spiraling, knows that I need physical touch to ground me.

Still confused but back in control, I look up and into the warm, bourbon-colored eyes of the bearded adonis.

Of course. Why not? Why wouldn't I fall completely apart on one of the worst days I've ever had in front of one of the most beautiful men I've ever seen.

"Ma'am, are you okay?" he asks. Ma'am? He called me ma'am? I just celebrated my nineteenth birthday last week. I'm still reeling from the effects of the panic attack and am irrationally amused by him referring to me as "ma'am". A hysterical laugh escapes my mouth. Bearded adonis cocks his head to the side and eyes me cautiously. Oh, Lordy. He thinks I'm insane.

"Ma'am?" He questions again, briefly squeezing my legs. Words. I need words. "Ma'am, are you okay?"

No, I sure as hell am not okay. "Yes," I manage to lie, "I'm fine. It's just a panic attack." I feel the pressure and burning in my chest again and my tears threaten their escape. I hold my hand up slightly. "I just need a minute."

He visibly relaxes and removes his hands from my legs. My thighs tingle where his touch had just been. I want him to touch me again. He is crouching in front of me, his face at eye level.

"It happens," he says casually, and I'm grateful for his understanding response. "Catch your breath. I'm staying right here. I don't want you passing out on me." He smiles at me, an adorable dimple appearing on his left cheek. I take a minute to catch my breath as he stares at me with golden-brown eyes framed by thick, black lashes that curl up perfectly. I almost resent him for those lashes. He runs a hand through his dark hair and rocks back on his heels. He rests his chin in his hand, absentmindedly scratching his short, neat beard while studying my face.

I finally catch my breath and my heart rate slows. He stands, and now his crotch is at eye level. I turn my head quickly to the side and can feel the blush spreading up my neck to my cheeks. Why am I so awkward?

He reaches toward my face and I hold my breath, anticipating his touch. But instead, he shakes his head just slightly and drops his arm. He extends his hand down toward mine and gently takes my hand in his palm. I wish I weren't wearing gloves. I want to know what his hands feel like on my skin. I immediately blush and internally curse myself for allowing this stranger to have such an affect on me.

He pulls me to my feet and instead of his crotch I find myself staring at his pecs. His chest is wide and thick and I wonder if it's hard and smooth under that coat and scarf. I feel the blush again and try to push my inappropriate thoughts from my mind. What is wrong with me?

I square my shoulders and look up at him. He reaches back up and tucks a piece of hair behind my ear. It's an inappropriately intimate thing to do to a stranger, but I'm mostly excited he finally touched me.

"Better?" he asks so softly he's almost whispering. His hand is still on my face. I'm looking into his bourbon colored eyes.

What? Oh- the panic attack. Right.

"Yes," My traitorous voice cracks. I clear my throat. "Yes, thank you. And sorry. I didn't mean to ruin your morning coffee. I'll be fine." I break our eye contact. It's too intense.

I suddenly realize how close we're standing. I raise my eyes to his mouth. If I stood on my tiptoes, right now, and leaned forward two inches, our lips would touch. I know it is absolutely insane, but he glances down at my mouth, as if he's thinking the same thing.

He takes in a breath.

My phone vibrates.

I take a step back and exhale as I pull my cell phone from the pocket of my coat. It's a text from Wyatt.

I smile at the thought of seeing Wyatt today, but then am overwhelmed by grief when I remember why I'm back in town, and why Wyatt is texting me. I can't read this right now. I can't fall apart in front of him again.

I look up. He's still staring at my face, but his expression has changed. I have no idea what he's thinking or feeling.

"You didn't ruin my morning. Quite the contrary. This is honestly one of the most interesting mornings I've had in a long time. But I'm sure I'm keeping you from something now." He glances down at the phone in my hand.

"Um, yes, actually." I say, but I'm still frozen in place.

"Meeting someone?" he asks, his eyes flicking to the coffee shop behind me. I'm surprised by his intrusive, personal question, and by the wide-eyed look on his face I assume he's surprised he asked it.

"Excuse me?" I ask.

"I don't mean to pry. I just don't want to keep you from your coffee date."

I wish it were a date. I wish it were anything else, honestly. I'm suddenly overwhelmed by emotion. I feel a wave of panic wash over me. One traitorous tear escapes and rolls down my cheek. I reach up to wipe it away, but he beats me to it. He's touching my face again, and looking down at me with concern.

"No," I whisper, "It's not a date. I'm going to bury my father."