Bitter Truth (Hawthorne Vines #1)

It still doesn’t feel like I’ve taken a full breath, and I try to focus on that. On the sounds of my breath coming in and out, on the feel of it entering my lungs and exhaling through my mouth.

What I want to do is scream. What I want to do is crawl into the ground and never come out.

Leaning forward, I rest my head against the steering wheel, trying to focus on feeling calm even though I’m anything but.

The passenger door opens and then I feel a hand pressed against my back, then smooth circles there. When I turn, my eyes focus on Murphy.

“You’re going to be okay,” she tells me, her voice soothing and warm.

I close my eyes and lean my forehead against the wheel again, my hands still gripping it for dear life.

“Deep breaths, okay?”

“Distract me,” I tell her. “Please. Talk about anything.”

It’s something I read online, that giving the brain something else to focus on can divert some of the energy being used to focus on whatever caused the anxiety attack in the first place. But I’ve always been alone in the past. Holed up in my studio apartment in Chicago, which is when they first started. So it’s not something I’ve ever tried.

“Anything?”

I nod, though the movement is so small, I’m not sure she sees it.

A few seconds later, she starts to sing. It’s not a song I’m familiar with, the melody slow and soothing. If I’m honest, I don’t even really hear the words.

But just the sound of her, and the way her hand moves in careful swaths across my back, begins to ease the tightness in my chest and arms.

When I do finally hear the words, something inside me knows instinctively.

This is one of Murphy’s songs.

You want to take the parts of me

That do not serve you best

You want to take the heart of me

And then what will be left

But skin and bones

Your sticks and stones

Have left a tragic mess

She sings for a while, and most of it blurs together as I try to calm myself and climb out of the emotional hole I’ve fallen in.

But I’m so thankful that she’s here, and that I’m not alone.

Eventually, my heart begins to slow and my breathing evens out.

I close my eyes, the acute stress fading and the beginning of a post-anxiety slump creeping in to weigh me down.

“It started in Chicago,” I say, my eyes still closed, not ready to look at her just yet. “I got fired from my job, and one night I just felt like I couldn’t exist in my skin anymore.” I finally look at Murphy. “It’s the only way to describe it. I thought I was dying.”

She reaches her hand out and rests it on mine, giving a gentle squeeze.

“I’m so sorry. It sounds horrible.”

“It feels horrible. And it’s embarrassing. Because literally nothing is wrong.”