As the evening progressed, the size of the party doubled. Dakota drifted away to mingle, leaving me alone. People spilled out of the living room, down the hallway, and into the grand foyer. Laughter and conversation buzzed in my ears like locusts. I couldn’t take a step in any direction without brushing into someone. The walls began to close in on me. My ribs tightened, making it impossible to draw a full breath.

“Excuse me.” A woman jostled my back.

“Pardon me.” The sleeve of a waiter brushed my bare arm as he passed through with a tray of hors d’oeuvres.

“No problem,” I murmured, but it was a problem.

The edges of my control began to fray. No, no. Not now. I hadn’t experienced a meltdown since the broom closet at the coffee shop last month, and I sure as hell didn’t want to have one now. I searched the room for Rhett, but he’d disappeared. I needed an anchor, something familiar to latch onto. Desperate to regain control, I fled toward the patio. In my haste, I bumped the elbow of an austere, bearded gentleman. The contents of his highball glass splashed over my chest, staining my dress and splattering his shoes.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “Watch where you’re going, young lady.”

“Sorry. I’m so sorry,” I said and dove headlong into sensory overload. Too many noises. The scents of spilled liquor, food, floral perfumes, musky colognes. Laughter, talking, music, my heartbeat. The press of the crowd, stealing my breath and hemming me in. The wet, cold sensation of liquid seeping through my dress and onto my skin. “Move. Please. Let me through.”

I shoved a path through the crowd, fighting my way to the foyer. I exploded through the front door and landed on the porch. The cold September air rushed over me, cooling my cheeks.

“Bronte?” Dakota’s concerned voice hovered on the periphery of my consciousness. At the touch of her hand to my shoulder, I flinched and backed away. “Are you okay?” When I looked into her eyes, they were filled with compassion. “What’s wrong? Are you having a panic attack?”

“Yes. No.” I pressed a hand to my chest, fighting to regain control, hating myself for the way I was. “I just needed some space. It’s so crowded in there. So many people. I couldn’t breathe.”

“Here. Come and sit down.” With gentle hands, she guided me to a chair near the door. “Focus on your breathing. Slow and easy. In and out.”

A shadow fell across us. I cringed, sensitive to the change in light. Sam stepped into my range of sight. “What’s going on?”

“Go get Rhett,” Dakota said. He pivoted, moving into immediate action.

“I should never have come here tonight.” I shook my head, feeling the threat of tears, hating my lack of control. The buzzing in my ears grew louder. “I’m sorry for ruining your party.”

“Don’t apologize. You’re fine. Nothing’s ruined, except maybe your dress.” She squeezed my hands. “I could care less what those people in there think. I’m worried about you.”

The genuine concern in her voice eased my panic. Her calm capability reminded me of my mother. My heartbeat began to regulate. She truly was a sweet person, and I appreciated her efforts to put me at ease. In my experience, most people either avoided me entirely or used the opportunity to make fun of me.

“What happened?” Rhett barreled onto the porch, Sam on his heels, and screeched to a halt at my side. He kneeled down on one knee. His gaze searched my face, and I felt even smaller for worrying him. “Bronte? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Or I will be. I just—I lost it in there. I couldn’t find you, and there were so many people.” My voice trailed away. I ducked my head to hide my shame.

“It’s okay,” he said. One of his hands touched my cheek, but his voice sounded flat. “I’m ready to go anyway.” Taking my hands, he pulled me to my feet. “Sam, Dakota, thanks for your hospitality.”

“Our pleasure,” Sam said.

“We loved having you,” Dakota said. “Bronte, don’t forget. We’re having lunch on Wednesday. I’ll text you.”

“Yes. That’ll be great.” Things were returning to normal. My vision sharpened, and my thoughts began to clear. Cool, clean air filled my lungs. “Thank you for being so kind.”

An uncomfortable tension consumed the drive home. Rhett said nothing, refusing to meet my gaze. He gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white and straining. I bit the inside of my cheek to hold back the dozens of thoughts and questions racing through my head. Finally, when we reached my street, he parked the car in front of my building and broke the silence.

“I’m not going to be able to make lunch this week,” he said.

“We have lunch every Tuesday and Thursday.” My mind fumbled to wrap around his words. He was trying to break our routine. First the party, and now this. I thought he respected the sanctity of a schedule. “But you can’t. It’s on my calendar.”

“Just because you write something down doesn’t make it a given.”

“But I wrote it down.” I heard the words come out of my mouth, recognized the glitch in my thoughts but was powerless to stop them.

He sighed, like he was out of patience, and unclenched his fingers from the wheel. “I can do whatever I want, Bronte. I’ve got a lot going on next week. You’re just going to have to deal with it.”

His sharp tone erased the last bits of mental fog. Frustration rolled off him in waves. This wasn’t the easygoing, fun guy I’d left with three hours earlier. The abrupt reversal of his moods sent me into a tailspin, but in a different way from the events of the party. Rhett was familiar, safe, and I felt comfortable enough with him to speak my mind.

“Why are you doing this? Are you angry with me?” I asked.

“No. I’m angry with myself. The party was a bad idea.” He shoved a hand through his hair and stared out the windshield. “I shouldn’t have invited you.”

“That’s a shitty thing to say, Rhett Easton.” For the first time in my life, a spark of indignation ignited inside me. I’d spent my entire twenty-eight years being ridiculed and pushed around by the so-called “normal” people, and I was over it. “Because you knew how I was before we went to your stupid party. I told you that I don’t do crowds, that I don’t do well in new situations. I’m sorry about the meltdown or if I embarrassed you, but you can’t be angry with me for being the way I am.”

The furrow between his brows intensified. When our eyes met, anguish filled his blue-gray irises. He was hurting. Deeply, judging by the twist of his mouth. Well, tough shit. I was hurting too. “Look. It’s been a long night. Let me get your door.” Even during an argument, he remained a gentleman. “I’ll walk you up. We can talk about this another time.” He reached for his door, but I jumped out onto the sidewalk, slamming the door behind me.

“Don’t worry about it.” Our shouting roused the neighborhood dogs. A chorus of howls and barks echoed down the quiet avenue. Upstairs, the light snapped on in 2B.

“Bronte, don’t be that way.” His footsteps slapped the pavement behind me. “Goddammit. Wait.” He reached the front steps as I crossed the threshold of the building. “Hang on.”

“I don’t have anything more to say.” I turned, blocking his entrance, and slammed the door in his face.

* * *

Once inside my apartment, I stripped out of the ruined dress and tossed it in the garbage can. I went straight to the bathroom and into the shower. The whiskey, or whatever the man had been drinking, had left a sticky residue across my chest. I scrubbed until the scent and feel disappeared, but the water couldn’t erase the knot in the pit of my stomach.

When I was clean and dry, I tried to tie together the fragments of my usual Saturday night routine. I brushed my teeth and prepared for bed. Unable to sleep, I walked around the living room two times counterclockwise and twice clockwise, counted the number of books on the bookshelf and divided the number by eight. On a bad day, these things soothed my nerves, but tonight I wrestled with the agitation. Then I realized I hadn’t locked and unlocked the door eight times. I hadn’t counted at all. No wonder my day had turned to shit.

I went back to the door and completed the ritual. I should’ve felt better, but I didn’t. The events of the evening had sent me into a complete and utter tailspin. Rhett’s behavior had unraveled the final thread of my self-control. I played the night over and over in my head, running our conversation on a loop, to dissect where it had all gone wrong.

In the morning, I took the bus to the coffee shop and sat on the counter in the kitchen. While my sister prepared an assortment of bakery items for display, I briefed her on the events of the night. She listened in silence, brow furrowing deeper by the second, until I finished. Once she’d completed her work, she wiped her hands on her apron and took a seat next to me.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” I asked.

“Oh, I’ve got plenty to say. I’m just trying to figure out how to say it without going off.” She covered my hand with hers.

“Well, I’m not getting any younger.”

“First, I think Rhett’s an ass, and I plan to give him a piece of my mind the next time I see him. And he’d better have a damn good excuse for acting the way he did,” she said. She lifted two fingers into the air. “And second, I think you need to call Dr. Mortensen.”

“No.” My whirling thoughts slammed to a halt. “I’m fine. I just need to work through things.”

She slid off the counter and took both my hands in hers. “Pickle, you’re not okay. You’ve been counting non-stop since you got here. Under your breath, but I heard it.”

I hung my head, not wanting to admit that she was right, but I knew it was true all the same.