How It Feels to Fly(18)

I laugh.

“Um, so about yesterday . . .” He keeps methodically separating grapes from their stems, but I can see his shoulders tense up. “I’m glad you told Dr. Lancaster what happened. And thanks for telling her I wanted to run and get her immediately.”

“I promised I would,” I say quietly.

“I know. But thanks anyway for following through. I want to be here. I’d hate to screw it up.” He tosses the stems in the garbage, swirls the grapes around in the colander one last time, and turns the faucet off. “And I’m sorry, again, for that whole thing. For not being more careful with you.” Now he turns to face me, putting the dripping colander on a paper towel on the counter.

“It’s fine. I was . . .” I gulp. “I was a little bit of a basket case yesterday.”

“You seemed okay to me. Until . . .”

“Yeah, well.” That’s what I do. I seem okay, until.

“Was it anything I did? Was it what I said on Sunday?”

I shake my head, even though that’s not entirely true. “It’s this whole thing. This place. I’m—I’m kind of a mess.”

Now it’s Andrew’s turn to shake his head. “Nope. I don’t accept that.”

“You don’t accept that I’m a mess?”

“I do not. In fact, I think you’re pretty great.”

His words—and the sincere smile on his face—almost knock me over. I have to grip the sides of the stool to stay upright. “Oh,” I say, my voice coming out weaker than I want it to. “Thanks, I guess.”

“You’re welcome. And just so you know—” Andrew shuts his mouth abruptly as Dominic walks in. He’s in plaid pajama bottoms and a white T-shirt, and his dark hair is sticking out in all directions.

“Hey,” he says, yawning. “I’m starving. What’s for breakfast?”

Andrew snaps into action. “Cinnamon rolls—about to go in the oven. And there’s fruit salad. Want to help? It’ll be ready faster if you do.”

“I guess,” Dominic says. “What do you need?”

Andrew sets him up slicing strawberries. Then he looks over to me. “Can you help me out by peeling some clementines?”

I nod, and he pushes the bowl my way.

“Thanks,” he says.

“No problem.”

“Oh, and I should’ve asked earlier. Do you drink coffee? I made a pot.” He points at the coffeemaker.

“Sometimes.” The problem is, I like it light and sweet—and that’s how the calories get in.

Andrew pulls a mug out of the cabinet. “I’ll get you some. How do you take it?”

“Black.”

When he hands me the steaming mug, our fingers brush. The brief touch gives me goose bumps up and down my arms. I take a sip of the black coffee, trying not to cringe at the bitter liquid as it hits my taste buds. Then I get to work on the clementines.

Andrew puts the pastries in the oven. Within minutes, the smell of cinnamon sugar is overwhelming. Intoxicating.

I lift a peeled clementine to my nose. I breathe in the bright citrus scent. I tell myself, This is what I want. Fresh fruit. Not butter and dough and icing. I pull off a segment and pop it into my mouth, biting down. The juice is sweet and tart.

I set the rest of the clementine aside on a paper towel. Every time the cinnamon roll smell threatens to overwhelm me, I eat another segment.

And bite by bite, I make it through the next hour.

THE MORNING’S GROUP session is about anxiety triggers and symptoms. Dr. Lancaster has us call out how we feel in stressful situations. She writes down our ideas on the big whiteboard that appeared in the Dogwood Room overnight.

“I can’t breathe,” Katie says. “And my heart beats so hard.”

“I get dizzy,” Omar adds.

“Upset stomach,” Jenna says primly.

After a long pause, Dominic says, “If I get really freaked out—and I’m not saying I ever do, but, like, hypothetically—my palms get all sweaty. I can’t grip the ball.” He slouches in his seat and repeats, “Hypothetically.”

“Good,” Dr. Lancaster says. “Anyone else?”

“The voice in my head gets really loud,” I murmur.

Dr. Lancaster writes Negative self-talk on the whiteboard. “Zoe?”

“Like I told you yesterday,” Zoe says, looking bored, “I don’t have a problem with anxiety. Psychoanalyze me all you want. You won’t get anywhere.”

Dr. Lancaster nods. “Okay then.” She starts talking about how when we experience those initial symptoms, we can anticipate the anxiety taking over. And using the techniques we’re going to explore while we’re here, we can defuse the tension and prepare to compete or perform more effectively.

I lean forward in my seat, paying close attention. If my mom quizzes me about this tonight, I want to have something to tell her. Never mind how much my life would change if the techniques Dr. Lancaster is talking about actually work.

They won’t work. Nothing will work. You’re stuck like this—

I raise my hand. “When will we start practicing?”

“Practicing what, Sam?”

I list off a few of the things she mentioned. “Breathing. Mantras. Redirecting our nervous energy. All of it.”