Authors: Jennifer Sucevic
Cole seems to be a fan favorite with the girls at Western.
Well, they can have him as far as I’m concerned because I have zero interest in starting up anything with anybody. Nope. I am totally uninterested. Even if he is dreamy looking and smells delicious and has dimples that make my panties flood with moisture.
I almost wince at that incredibly damning thought.
He smiles congenially at Lisa, giving her a polite nod but nothing more. There is absolutely nothing flirtatious about his manner. No appreciative or lingering looks that I can see. In fact, there is absolutely no checking out of any kind going on here. Which is strange because Lisa is super cute. With all that long dark hair, cool blue eyes, and boobs that look as if they belong in a different zip code other than the one she’s currently standing in, she usually has the guys who stop in here for tutoring eating out of the palm of her hand.
And Cole doesn’t even blink in her direction.
Which, judging by the slight frown marring Lisa’s normally pretty face, she doesn’t understand either.
I almost wish he had checked her out right in front of me. It would make everything so much easier. Because I don’t want to like Cole. There’s already way too much to like about him. I can literally feel myself getting sucked in by him and I’m still trying to fight against the lure of it. But it’s beginning to feel more and more like a losing battle.
Hopefully this dinner will be short and sweet because I’m already regretting my decision to grab something with him. Instead of turning towards campus, like I expect, Cole walks towards the parking lot. “Where are we going?”
“My car is parked right over here. I thought we could grab something from Leno’s.”
This has me stopping in my tracks. “We’re not going to the Union?”
“Leno’s is only a few blocks away and the sandwiches are fantastic. Not to mention fast. Much better than anything we’ll find at the Union.” As if the subject has been settled, he once again starts walking through the parking lot. Twilight has just started to fall making the shadows stretch and lengthen. “Come on, Cassidy, I promise, forty minutes tops and then I’ll drop you off at the library, okay? If we go to the Union, you would have to walk all the way across campus. So, either way, it will end up taking the same amount of time. And the food is much better at Leno’s.”
Without consciously deciding, I slowly trail after him. I mean, what he says makes sense… sort of. As soon as I’m at his side, he reaches out, grabbing my fingers with his own. I glance down at our clasped hands before sliding my confused gaze to his. Of course he’s grinning. Something unwanted pings at the bottom of my belly.
I wish I could just get used to the way he makes me feel. Then it would be so much easier to ignore.
“This isn’t a date,” I repeat in a voice that sounds nothing like my normal one. It sounds more high pitched and twitchy.
“Whatever you say.” But his words don’t exactly sound convincing. Which only makes me twitchier.
Suffering from major regrets, he practically tows me through the filled parking lot until we finally arrive at his car. I stop, staring at it before one of my brows slowly slides up. “A Shelby Mustang?”
I watch as surprise flares in his golden eyes before a smile slowly spreads its way across his face. “Pure Detroit muscle, baby.” He strokes a hand rather adoringly over his car. Clearly there is a real love affair going on between them. I almost smirk. Maybe I don’t have anything to be worried about after all.
Letting my eyes slide back over the car, I can’t help the soft smile that touches my own lips because she really is a beauty. Electric blue with two thick white racing stripes down the middle.
“2008?” I ask, completely taken in by the gleaming Mustang before me.
My eyes continue trailing over the car as I wait for an answer. Although honestly, I’d be surprised if I was wrong. Feeling impatient, because I’m still waiting for a response, I finally glance over at him. I’ve seen enough muscle cars to identify Mustang make and models. Attending classic car shows was something my dad and I used to do together. Corvettes and Mustangs. Those were his favorites. Don’t get me wrong, I like Mustangs too. But I really love Camaros. It’s been well over a year since I’ve been to a car show. The smile slips just a bit from my lips.
When my eyes finally meet his again, he says in a completely serious voice, “I think I might love you, Cassidy.”
I snort knowing that he’s joking because guys are so like that about their cars. Anytime a chick knows even the slightest detail about a muscle car, or cars in general for that matter, their minds literally explode. It’s totally ridiculous not to mention sexist but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I get off on it just a teeny tiny bit.
Ignoring that little bit of nonsense, I run my hand over her sleek polished lines. And yeah, even I refer to them as
hers
. Weird, I know, but there’s just something beautiful and sexy, not to mention hot about muscle cars, so I completely understand why guys refer to them that way.
“Five hundred and forty horses and a V-8 engine. She’s gorgeous, Cole.” Then I glare at him, “You’re an idiot for keeping her here at school.”
He blinks his golden eyes once, then twice. “Say it again,” he murmurs. His voice is all thick and gravelly.
I lower my brows in consternation. “Gladly.” Then I repeat with more emphasis than the first time, “You’re an idiot.”
He waves a hand at me. “No, the other part. Just whisper it real slow-like. Maybe lick your lips a little bit.” Raising his brows, he waits expectantly.
Alright, I just can’t help it. I start laughing before shaking my head. “Come on, let’s go. I’ve got a lot of studying to get through. I can’t stand around here all night gawking at your precious car.”
Before I can open the door for myself, Cole is there, opening it for me. Just as I slide into the soft-as-butter leather seat, he reaches across me to fasten the belt as our eyes meet. I can almost feel the heat of his gaze singeing me from the inside out. My breath catches as our eyes hold for a long drawn out moment.
“That’s twice now, Cassidy. You better watch out because I’m on a roll.”
“Twice?” The word sounds slightly breathy… even to my own ears.
He clicks the belt firmly into place, his gaze still on mine. “That I’ve managed to make you laugh.”
Dragging my eyes from his, I stare out the windshield as I inhale a deep breath of air because he’s right.
That’s twice.
Two more than usual.
Dangerous
my mind echoes again.
Completely dangerous
.
“Okay Cassidy, you can go on back now, Dr. Thompson is ready to see you.” The receptionist smiles as she shuffles around a few papers on her perfectly tidy desk.
Giving her a brief smile in return, I walk through the door into the office of the psychologist I’ve been seeing for the last three weeks. I knew when I’d been accepted at Western this past summer that I would need to continue with my therapy sessions and thankfully Dr. Thompson has turned out to be the perfect fit.
Her office is decorated in soothing tans and whites with splashes or pops of blues and oranges that catch the eye. And yes, there is actually a couch but there are comfy chairs as well. I’ve been seeing a therapist now for the last nine months and in all that time, I have never stretched out on a couch or stared at ink blots.
Although, I suppose I could have if I’d wanted to.
Being a creature of habit, I always pick the same chair. I’m sure that says something about me but I have yet to ask. Dr. Thompson usually sits directly across from me with a notebook close at hand in case she wants to jot down a few notes. In the beginning, I used to find that disconcerting- I just wanted to take a quick little peek to see what she was writing about me, but now it seems normal. Okay… I’m not going to lie, I still want to take a peek at that notebook.
Once we’re both settled, Dr. Thompson starts off our session just like she always does. There’s some measure of comfort in our established routine that instantly calms my frayed nerves.
“So, tell me how this week has been going for you.” Her kind eyes hold mine as if she is genuinely interested in my answer.
Taking a deep breath, I quietly push out the dreaded words. “I had an anxiety attack last Thursday night.”
I can tell this catches her off guard by the way her narrow brows quickly draw together. She knows this is the first episode I’ve experienced here at school. It’s actually the first one I’ve had in a really long time. Months. Another wave of apprehension washes over me because I’m absolutely terrified of backsliding. I’m terrified of tumbling back down into that yawning pit of despair I only recently crawled out of.
“Okay, so tell me exactly what happened, Cassidy.” Her words are calm, soothing. In response, I instantly feel myself begin to relax again. If there’s someone who can help me through this, it’s Dr. Thompson.
Nodding, I slowly recount everything that occurred Thursday night. I tell her about my interaction with Alex and then with Cole.
“Had you been drinking at all? Even a tiny sip?” Her words aren’t censorious, merely curious. Like me, she’s simply trying to get to the bottom of what triggered the attack.
“Just diet cola.” I haven’t had a sip of alcohol in more than nine months. Not since that night…
She gives me a small smile before jotting down a few notes. “Just making sure.”
I nod, feeling the anxiety of that night thread its way through my body before slowly rolling over me like a massive wave. I don’t want to let it suck me back under again but I don’t know how to stop it from happening.
“So, he grabbed your upper arm from behind and spun you towards him,” she clarifies quietly.
“Yes,” hearing her describe it like that has me actually feeling as if my throat is closing up, as if I can’t suck in enough oxygen. As if I’m being strangled from the inside out. Eyes widening, my hands are suddenly clawing at my neck as if that will somehow loosen the pressure.
“Cassidy, I want you to look at me,” her words are firm but still soothing. My eyes fly helplessly to hers. “You’re safe in this office. Everything is fine. We’re going to work through this together. Okay?”
Unable to utter a single word in response, I simply nod my head.
“Now, I want you to close your eyes and relax into the chair.”
When I don’t immediately comply, she explains, “We’re going to engage in some breathing exercises to help calm you down, alright?”
Jerking my head in response, I lean back, squeezing my eyes tightly shut as the soothing timbre of Dr. Thompson’s deep voice washes over me. Any moment I’m going to start hyperventilating and totally lose it.
“I want you to focus on taking slow deep breaths. Inhale through your nose and then breathe slowly out through your mouth. In and out. Good. You’re doing wonderfully.”
I concentrate on her words. On breathing in before slowly pushing it out. Little by little I begin to feel my body relax. First my fingers and toes. Then my arms and legs. After a while, everything feels limp as a noodle as she continues to murmur quietly. When she finally finishes, I sluggishly peel open my eyes, realizing that I no longer feel as if I’m being choked.
“Better?” She asks before sitting back and watching me closely.
“Yes, much better.” No longer does my body feel strung tight, riddled with anxiety and icy cold panic.
“Okay, good.” Then she asks rather gently, “Do you feel like you might need a prescription at this point?”
Taking another deep breath, I turn the question over in my mind. I have nothing against taking pills if they’re needed but… “No. It only happened once and I really don’t want to start taking anything again.”
I’ve been down that road before. And the last thing I need is to travel down the familiar path of it again. I want to try handling this on my own.
“Okay. I understand your feelings and I respect them but you need to promise me that if you experience another attack, you’ll call the office right away. Even though you don’t want to, we may need to revisit this subject again.”
“I will, I promise.” But my hope is that it won’t be necessary.
“Good. So why don’t you tell me how your classes are going so far. It’s been a little over three weeks now. Are you feeling overwhelmed by the workload?”
Something within me instantly settles because this is the easy part. School is the easy part. Except for last year, I’ve always excelled scholastically. Especially in math and science. So steering the conversation away from what caused my anxiety attack to my academic work load feels like safe terrain. No racing heartbeat. No frantic thoughts. No panicking.
This I can handle.
“My classes are going really well.” After the disaster of last fall, I have to admit that it feels good to be doing well.
“And working in the tutoring center hasn’t added too much stress?”
“No.” Immediately my thoughts turn to Cole and the fact that he’ll probably be popping in from time to time. “I really like tutoring. It fits into my schedule and I’m enjoying it more than I thought I would.”