“Paige.” She stops my inane rambling. “It’s not a big deal. I won’t tell him. But I haven’t seen a letter.”
My heart stutters. “Are you sure?” I scan the presents again.
She shakes her head with a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry. I can ask Whit. Maybe Gray grabbed it.”
“No!” I don’t need even more attention drawn to this disaster. “It’s okay.”
It’ll be fine, I lie to myself.
You won’t be, SIM whispers.
Crushing panic spreads quickly and easily. I take a breath, feeling like I just swam a mile. I can’t breathe. Sharp pangs tear through my stomach and tears build behind my eyes. I can’t breathe.
“Can you check your closet for the letter?” I don’t register what she says, but she leaves the room.
What I want to do is tear apart every present under the tree, in case the letter got trapped under the pile—or worse, inside one of the perfectly wrapped packages.
What I actually do is shake the angsty energy from my hands as I pace the room, because I have just enough presence of mind to realize that tearing wildly through the presents will only make this bad situation worse.
He’ll find the letter. Or maybe not him, but someone will find it. Maybe they’ll read it; maybe they’ll give it to him. Either way, he’s going to find out.
And that’s when I lose him.
Once he realizes I’ve been pining for him the whole time, secretly hoping for all his relationships to fail so he’ll realize he’s in love with me, he won’t even want to be friends with me. Even being in the same room with him will be awkward and terrible and I’ll have to change all my routes at school to avoid him. And Clover is going to marry Jay and move on to an adult life with her husband and leave me behind.
I wasted my one chance to get out of Gilbert, and it’ll never come around again.
I’ll be friendless and alone in the same small town for the rest of my life.
“I couldn’t find it,” Mrs. Wilding says. “But I’ll look again when everyone is awake and I can turn the lights on.”
“Thanks,” I say shrilly. “I’m gonna go back to bed.”
“I’ll tell everyone to be on the lookout for it today.” Her voice stops me at the top of the stairs.
“No! Please don’t. I’d rather no one else know.” I take the stairs two at a time, a plan forming in my mind.
I’ll stay in my room today.
I’ll tell Fitz I’m sick and don’t want to infect his family, and I’ll hide. They’ll find the letter, and Fitz’s dad will read it out loud around the fire, the kids gathered at his knee like he’s Santa Claus. When they get to the part about how Fitz is the only person in my life who makes me feel like I’m not out-of-my-mind crazy, they’ll all laugh. Especially Whit. He’ll never let Fitz live this down. But I won’t hear it, because I’ll be in the basement with my head under a blanket. And that’s the whole point. They’ll feel so bad for me that they’ll let me hide out until it’s time to go home, and then I’ll never have to see th—
I run smack into someone outside the bathroom. “Sorry!” It’s Darcy. Beautiful, Christmas-mouse Darcy, in expensive leggings and a soft sweater.
“My fault,” I whisper back.
“Merry Christmas! I should be sleeping, but Jane snores. Why are you awake?” She frowns. “Are you okay?”
I furiously blink away the tears. What is it about that question? When I am okay, the words are weightless. When things are going sideways, it’s the fastest way to get me to break down. A lump rises in my throat. I almost choke on it. “I don’t feel good.”
“Oh no! Is it the flu?” She leans away, holding her breath.
I don’t want to add unnecessary stress to her life, so I say, “It’s something I ate.”
She steps aside, clearing a path for me to the bathroom. I ignore the implication and dart inside my room, slamming the door behind me. I lean against it and slide to the floor, taking giant gulps of air that don’t feel like nearly enough. My chest is tight and a wave of nausea rolls through me. Bile rises in my throat and I choke it down.
I need to move. Need to get out—now.
The room is too small. I can’t breathe in here. I push myself to my feet and pace across the worn carpet.
Air. I need air or I’m going to die in this room.
I open the door and stumble into the main room. I put my hands on my knees and gasp for air.
Why is there no air in this place?
Fitz startles awake. “Paige—”
“I can’t breathe,” I gasp. My lips are numb. My fingers tingling. Fitz leaps over the back of the couch to stand by me.
“It’s a panic attack. You’re not dying,” he says.
But it feels like I’m dying.
It’s too hot in here. Maybe I am sick. Cold sweat slicks down my neck as my heart pounds in my chest. There has to be a way out of this, but I can’t think what it is.
Fitz threads his warm fingers through mine and squeezes three times.
I close my eyes and sink to my knees, pressing my forehead to the cool wooden floor. Fitz comes with me, his hand never wavering. “I feel sick I can’t breathe I think I need to lie down.”
“Name five things—”
“I can’t do that right now,” I snap.
“This is going to end. I promise. You won’t feel like this forever.” His free hand rubs calming circles on my back.
He’s right. This has happened before.
I feel like I’m dying but I’m not.
I sit like that, curled in a trembling ball on my knees in my best friend’s basement, until my heart slows. My gasping breaths slowly even out. Feeling returns to my lips and my fingers. And when the worst of the attack is over, the embarrassment settles in its place. I pull my fingers from Fitz’s grasp and turn away as hot, prickly shame crawls over my skin like a rash.
“It’s okay. Talk to me,” Fitz pleads.
I quickly wipe tears off my cheeks. I probably look like a wreck: unbrushed hair, unbrushed teeth, still in my pajamas. I can’t believe Fitz is seeing me like this.
Why can’t I ever be normal?
“I’m sorry, I can’t right now.” I glance over my shoulder at Fitz, whose face is a mix of sadness and frustration and worry. I hate that I’m making him look like that. I hate that I’m such a disaster, but I don’t know how to be anything else. I escape to his room, climb in bed, pull the covers over my head, and make plans to stay there for the rest of my life.
SIM starts a new list, titled How I could have avoided this disaster with Clover. (He can be so wordy.)
This list isn’t as quick or as easy to compose as the one about Clover ruining her life, believe it or not.
Option one: The phone call (and what I could have done differently).
I consider this while I sit on the couch in my pajamas, watching (and occasionally participating in) the requisite giving and receiving and unwrapping and thanking. Tyson gives my mom a No Doubt record. It seems sort of generic and whatever, because Mom doesn’t strike me as a huge Gwen Stefani fan, but she tears up when she opens it. So apparently, he knows something about her that I don’t. Tyson has a present for me too, and I’m all sorts of awkward when he hands it to me. It’s a Nat Geo 50 States, 5,000 Ideas book. Mom must have told him about my bedroom. It’s about ten times more thoughtful than I expected, and I wonder why he went to the trouble.