The realization hits like a semi-truck.
I think it’smydeal.
Like I can fix the broken in me if I just live out Mom’s dream. If I’m perfect enough. Controlled enough. If I achieve enough.
Fuck.
It’s not going to work. The rules. Everything I’ve been striving for. The control. The endless lists and goals and carefully maintained image.
What if I can’t fix shit? What if I’ve been lying tomyself this whole time, pretending everything’s fine when really I’m just...
“I’m still really worried about Mom,” I blurt out. The words tumble over themselves.
“Five years is a really good benchmark, but there was only a sixty percent survival rate for five years for people who have her kind of cancer. Which means there’s a forty percent chance it’ll come back and?—”
Sixty percent. Forty percent.
62% chance she’s fine. 38% chance I lose her.
No wait. That’s a different statistic. That’s?—
My chest is tight. Too tight.
Count to four. Breathe in—one, two, three, four.
Can’t. Can’t get enough air.
Try again. One, two—no, that’s only two. Start over.
Check the mirrors. Have to check the mirrors.
Rearview. Can’t focus. Everything’s blurring.
Side mirror. Left. No—which one is left? My left or the car’s left?
Count backward from one hundred by sevens: 100, 93, 86—no, that’s wrong. Start over.
100, 93—what comes after 93?
I can’t—I can’t think. Can’t breathe. Can’t count. Can’t?—
My hands are shaking on the wheel. Ten and two. Two and ten.
Everything’s breaking down. Every system. Every pattern. Every rule.
“Whoa. Holy shit. Breathe. Caleb!Breathe. Pull the car over.”
Harper’s hand is squeezing my leg. Trees passing by in a blur.
“Pull the car over,” Harper repeats, urgent now.
I signal—because even in a panic attack, I apparently can’t break protocol—and ease onto the shoulder. The moment the car’s in park, Harper’s unbuckling and turning toward me.
“Look at me.” Her hands frame my face. “Caleb. Look at me.”
I do. Her eyes are stormy gray, fierce and focused entirely on me.
“Breathe with me. In.” She inhales deeply. “Out.” She exhales.