She's having a panic attack. My twin sister, Freya, had them for years when we were teenagers. She was involved in a horrific car accident she walked away from, but which killed her best friend. The trauma manifested itself in frequent bouts of acute panic. They threw my entire family into a tailspin, and we all went to counseling to learn how to help her cope.

I look down at the woman in front of me. She's gone from trembling to shaking, and I'm worried that she is going to fall over. I want to put my arm around her, but I'm not sure that it won't just make things worse. "Hey, I know you're scared, but they must know we've broken down. They will probably have it fixed in just a few minutes,” I say in as soothing a voice as I can manage given how nervous I feel.

She doesn't respond, only shrinks further into the corner of the elevator. Her eyes, the first thing I noticed about her, are wide open but unseeing. The flecks of gold in them, which seemed to cut through the shadows cast by the ambient lighting in the hotel's restaurant, first reminded me of the summer and sunshine. But right now, they’re dull and full of terror and confusion.

I need to get her and myself off the elevator. Until I can manage that, I need to help her calm down before this escalates and becomes a crisis. I take a step towards her, and she shakes her head and whimpers. I stop moving but try to figure out how I’m going to get her to focus and calm down.

She's clearly claustrophobic because she went from looking like the reincarnation of the Greek goddess Athena, ready to battle me to the death, to looking like she's afraid for her life. She’s shivering. The elevator is cold and her white tunic is slightly see-through, but it covers every bit of her, except her throat and hands. Her jeans are form fitting, but her tunic hits her at mid-thigh. Her feet are encased in black thong sandals, are also exposed.

I’d noticed her toes earlier by the pool. They’re painted a bright, cheerful red. It’s the one flare of color she seems to allow on her person. Now they peek out of her sandals and I see them flexing a little and recognize that as a sign of stress. But Freya never trembled like this during her attacks. And I feel a stab of guilt at the way I treated her tonight. Shit.

I decide to try and help her in the only way I know how. I reach out slowly and gently wrap a hand around her arm. She whimpers again but doesn't fight me as I pull her close. She's only a few inches shorter than me, and her head comes to rest on my shoulder. Her hair tickles my nose, and I can't believe how good it feels to have this woman - as infuriating as she is beautiful - in my arms.

After our confrontation yesterday, I hadn’t expected to see her again.

I was struck how, even in the waning light of dusk and with only a few torches lighting the outdoor bar, her flawless skin glowed like dark honey. She watched the crowd as I watched her, her face reflecting disgust, annoyance and at times envy.

When that man approached, she'd flashed that fake smile, but I could see the moment she decided to go with him. She ordered another drink, but I could see, even across the pool, how white her knuckles were as she clutched the glass and threw it back.

When they got up, I sprang into action. Even though I’d resolved to stay away from her, I couldn’t sit there and watch her leave with another man. I knew she'd be angry when she found me behind her. I hadn’t expected her to crumble when I touched her.

I don't know what to do about her. She’s drives me crazy, but I’m also drawn to her. I know that no matter how angry I was, I wouldn’t have been able to keep my distance. Not as long as she was nearby.

She sobs softly and I pull her into my chest and wrap my arms around her and feel her shiver. I try to lend her some of my body heat. A sweet fragrance from her dark, loose, and glossy curls wafts up to my nose. Her arms are by her side, but she’s tucked tightly against me.

I feel the heat of her body through the cotton of my shirt, and I can feel the thud of her thundering heart against my diaphragm. I don't move, don't speak - I just stand there with this puzzle in my arms and say a silent prayer hoping that what worked for Freya will work for her. I don't know how much time passes, but her shaking recedes to a tremble and then to an occasional shudder. Her breathing goes from hitched to deep and slow.

I'm careful not to move, for fear of reigniting her panic. But I start to speak. "Are you okay?"

She gives a slow, halting nod and lifts her head to look at me. Her eyes are still wide with fear and now glassy with unshed tears. She puts her hand to her throat, and I immediately drop my arms and take a step back. Without turning my back to her, I back up and sit down on the floor of the elevator. I hope this assures her that I am not going to touch her again. I clear my throat to make sure my voice sounds neutral before I speak.

"Have you been to Italy before?" I say.

Her eyes are wide with confusion, and I try to stay focused on my task. But this close, I can see the flecks of color that make the tawny gold of her eyes, the tourmaline, amber, hazel, the nut-brown ring around her irises. They are so beautiful that I forget where we are. That tether that knows better than we do coils around us and holds fast.

We stare at each other. I don't have a single thought in my head but her. How can it be that I met this woman less than a week ago?

She should be a stranger, but I feel like I know her. Her eyes regain their focus, and her breathing slows. Her hand finally comes away from her throat.

That movement reminds me why I started speaking, and so I continue.

"I've only been once, in the summer. I usually vacation in cold weather. The heat drives me crazy, but I had the trip booked already, so I decided to go anyway." I hope making small talk will pull her out of her panic.

She just stares at me for a minute, her eyes clearing. "If you hate it, why did you book a trip?"

I wait for the bristle that comes whenever anyone asks why I made that trip. It's a benign question, an obvious follow up when I say I’ve been. But the bristle doesn’t come, and I find that telling her the truth is easy.

"My fiancée loved the heat. It was supposed to be our honeymoon. But she died. So, I went by myself." I can hear how cold and distant I sound.

She gasps. "Oh. I'm so...sorry," she says. The uncertainty of her condolence tells me she's confused by my blunt, emotionless statement which is completely at odds with the words I spoke. I'm only glad she's no longer looking at me like she thinks I might be Jack the Ripper. I look down at my hands for a moment, my ring-less finger a reminder that I should be married by now. That I'd probably be here with my wife if she hadn’t died.

I know I should feel guilty for not being sad. I know I should at least pretend to feel something for the memory of the woman I'd been preparing to spend the rest of my life with. But I can't.

I realize I've let myself get lost in my thoughts when her movement makes me look up. She's joined me on the floor, and she is leaning forward, her long, shapely legs crossed at the ankles and her clasped hands resting on her knees as she watches me, her leonine eyes now keenly trained on me. She’s calm, focused, thinking.

The tables have turned. She seems to be in complete control of her senses again. I, on the other hand, become aware of how small this elevator is. I chafe under her scrutiny; my hands feel uncomfortably clammy, and I feign a sudden interest in the walls of our confine and look away from her knowing gaze.

"This was recent, right? Her death?" she asks quietly.

I don't respond. The elevator will start moving soon, and I can get away from this woman and this conversation. This is what I get for trying to be nice.

"You're still very hurt by it. I'm sorry. I really am." Something in her tone, is so soothing and kind that it annoys me. I don't want her pity. I don't deserve it.

"I'm not hurt by it. You don't know a thing about it. You don't need to be sorry." I glance at my watch. "Listen, I only started talking to stop you from freaking out. I am not really interested in having this conversation."

She doesn't respond. I glance back at her. She is still watching me with those suddenly canny eyes. She seems completely unfazed by my brush-off.

"Oh, okay," she says with a dry laugh and breaks our eye contact.

"What?" I say, moving my head to capture her eyes again, but she looks down, avoiding my probe.

"You want me to be honest, but you can't be?" she says.

"I'm being honest,” I insist. “It’s an ugly truth, and some days I think there's something very wrong with me because I'm not sad. I was, but I'm not anymore, and I haven't been for a long time."

"I envy you," she says softly and then lifts her eyes to me.

And what I see there - the naked pain - makes my heart plummet, and I pull her back into my arms.

"I'm so sorry. That you’re still sad," I say. I don't know what's hurt her, but I know my platitudes aren't adequate. Yet, they’re all I have to offer. She lets me hold her, presses her face into my shoulder and rubs her cheek against the fabric of my shirt. I can feel the heat of her breath with each exhalation and the simultaneous fall of her chest.

"I'm used to it," she says suddenly, her voice clear and strong even though her face is still buried in my shoulder. I trail my fingers down her spine. I let my hands splay in the small of her back and pull her closer. She doesn't even seem to notice as she snuggles into me. She's lost in thought.

"I don't believe in fate," she says slowly. "We're strangers. Virtually. For whatever reason, fate, coincidence, bad luck, we met. We're stuck in this elevator together, and even though I was scared at first, I know you won't...I know I'm safe with you."

"Tell me your story." Who made you feel unsafe? I want to ask that, too, but I know it would be pushing. She lifts her head from my shoulder, and I can feel her looking at me, but I keep my eyes on the doors of the elevator. I'm afraid to break the spell of companionship we've somehow managed to cast.

"I will, and I want you to tell me yours, too. But we need conditions first," she says as if we're bartering.

"Conditions?" I say warily, not understanding why.

"Yes, conditions. That will make both of us feel safe about sharing."

I look at her sideways. "What, so we're going to confess our deepest secrets? Tell each other everything and then take it to our graves?”

"Something like that." She shrugs nonchalantly, but she wets her lips and her fingers wrestle with each other.

I'm not sure about this, but I want to know what's put those shadows in her eyes. I glance around the elevator and mimic her shoulder shrug.

"I guess we have nothing better to do, and I guess if it'll keep you from freaking out on me again...ouch."

She pinches me and gives me a mock glare. "I didn't freak out."

"Okay, not sure what it looks like when you do, then. That was pretty intense for a minute."

She smiles wistfully. "I haven't had a panic attack in a very long time. Thank you. I'm glad you knew what to do."

"You're welcome. My sister had them for years, so I recognized it."

She gives me a quick, grateful smile and then clasps her hands together as if to say, "Let's begin."

"This is your chance to get stuff off your chest without the risk of it ever being thrown back in your face later. I won't tell anyone, I won't judge you, I'll just listen. And I want you to do the same for me. No prodding. No other questions, okay?"

I look at her. I'm not convinced, but she's not entirely wrong. I do not want to talk about Zara with someone who didn't know her and who doesn’t understand what our relationship was like. Since she died, I've been pretending that I'm just angry. That's what I told myself, and it's what I told my family. They’ve allowed me my surliness, the distance, and my anger. They’ve given me space to grieve. But deep inside I am more than just angry and I’m not really grieving.

“I'm scared that her death was my fault. That I drove her to do what she did and I don't have the right to hate her for it.”

I feel her hand on my forearm, and I look down at it. It's as beautiful as the rest of her. And then I look at her face and see that she's hungry for this conversation.

She looks me in the eye and smiles gently. It completely transforms her face. She is still beautiful, but that smile, as it reaches her eyes, makes her look ethereal.

"Okay,” she says, her voice gentle and alluring. "Keep going. Or…do you want me to go first?”

"Fine, but no more talk about fate, and no psychobabble. I'll go first." I try to sound stern and unaffected. Her smile grows even wider.

I say a silent prayer that I don't regret this. She's already led me on a merry chase, already has me tied up in knots. But she's right. After this trip, I won't see her again. I tamp down the spike of sadness that makes me feel and start talking.