Every Little Thing

31

|| Evelyn ||
warning: sensitive material ahead

The basement of the house is a lot quieter than the main level. There are groups of people playing pool and video games, but at least it gives me a clear headspace without inhaling a liter of beer just by breathing the surrounding air. I make my way through people quietly, my entire body still quivering with adrenaline and disbelief.

I just kissed Reed Bishop. And walked away from him.

It makes total sense in my head—I kissed Reed, and with all of the mixed emotions coursing through me, I need some time to breathe. But, now that I think about it, it was probably a bad idea. What will Reed think? Will he take it like a rejection?

He knows you better than that, I assure myself, and for the first time in a long time, I don't doubt the thought.

I start taking deep, slow breaths, and my heart rate slowly goes back to normal. My knees stop shaking. I'm just a girl at a party, nothing out of the ordinary. Just a girl who kissed her crush of two years and left him stranded on a rooftop.

Part of me wants to go back and apologize, but another part of me knows I should wait. I can feel my anxiety levels heightening, slowly climbing up an invisible meter, and I need to wait until it's okay to move and think and speak again.

Calm down, Evelyn. Just take a deep breath and calm down.

The last two words drag on in my head, the way my mother used to say them, with the vowels drawn-out and emphasized. My panic attacks started early—around the time I was seven or eight. And Mom could sense them from a mile away. It was like some sort of sixth sense she had. Before the ragged breathing even started, she had me tucked into her arms.

"Calm down, Evie," she would say, "It'll be over in a minute. Just breathe."

And I would seize up and the awful, horrid nightmares would rampage through my head, but she never let go of me, even when I screamed and cried and flailed—she never let go until the second it was over.

Eventually, my breathing would even out and Mom would release me, and she'd let me sit on the floor and braid her hair until I was completely back to normal. The braiding helped me immensely—all the therapists said it was good to focus all of my energy on something intricate or difficult after an attack—and I learned how to do all different kinds over the years. Dutch, French, fishtail, waterfall.

It's been years since I've had an attack, or since I've braided hair, for that matter. But the memory always soothes me. If I shut my eyes right now, I can imagine myself doing it—my fingers slowly weaving three tendrils in and out and in and out.

"Evelyn."

A voice drags me from my thoughts, but it's not Reed's. I turn, a shock going up my spine as I see the familiar, chiseled face of Greg, Hale's friend. Greg from the campfire.

"Oh," I say, an involuntary gasp. I clear my throat and try again. "I mean, uh, hey."

"Hey." He says, taking a swig of beer. Judging by the slump in his posture and the smell on his breath, it's not his first. I take a tentative step back as he adds, "How are you? Still breaking hearts?"

"No," I say, through a weak laugh. "I'm, actually—I'm with someone."

"Really," he says, brows raised. "Surprise, surprise. So who is it? Who's the lucky guy?"