This Is My Brain in Love - I. W. Gregorio Page 0,89

of wood with a few bits of metal, but with no one upstairs to chaperone and Mr. Wu glaring at me with his best “don’t you have work to do” scowl, it’s impenetrable.

I walk back to the front and grab my phone to text Jocelyn. I can already feel my heartbeat pounding with worry in my ears.

You okay?

I stare at my phone for two agonizing minutes before it’s obvious she’s not going to respond right away. Briefly, I consider pulling a fire alarm to clear the building or going out to buy a grappling hook so I can scale the outside wall up to her room, something smart or heroic that’ll pull her out of whatever funk she’s in. Then reality sets in as my thoughts shrink down to a realization that’s small and sharp: Obviously, she doesn’t want to talk to me.

I’m dizzy with disappointment for a moment, unmoored, and I try to find steady ground by piecing together what must have happened.

The interview didn’t go well. Was it my fault? Did I set her up for a fall by forcing her to meet with Grace, whose level of perfection was probably unattainable? Did the omelet I made for her give her indigestion? Should I have walked her through my breathing exercises this morning? I must have failed Jocelyn in some way for her to close the door on me like that.

I go back to my laptop and consider sending her an e-mail, even though it’s unlikely she’ll check her e-mail if she’s not responding to texts. I’ll give her the good news about the catering business to try to cheer her up. And I’ll apologize for whatever I did, or whatever I didn’t do.

As I type through the message my hands start shaking, and the typos build up. The edges of my vision start to blur, and I close my eyes.

Five seconds in, five seconds out.

When I open my eyes my vision’s gone back to normal, but there’s still the slightest tremor in my hands, and my back feels like I’m a strung-up marionette. I continue my e-mail, only to be interrupted by a text chime.

Don’t want to talk about it, is all Jocelyn writes.

It’s like being sucker punched. I look down at my watch. I’ve been sitting on my ass for the past ten minutes, but my heart rate is 120. Another cramp hits then, as if someone’s stuck a fork in my liver and twisted. For a moment I struggle to breathe through cement-filled lungs. It’s been a long time, but I know what to do. I put my hands around my mouth and nose like a baffle and force my shoulders up and down, squeezing and releasing the muscles, willing them to relax.

Then, when I have a modicum of control over my body, I open up a new message and type slowly, reluctantly:

“Hi, Dr. Rifkin. Do you have any emergency slots this week?”

It turns out that Dr. Rifkin had a cancellation, so I slide into an open appointment at three thirty. Mr. Wu gives me permission to leave for a while after I promise to come back for the dinner rush. Jocelyn still hasn’t woken up from her “nap.”

When he opens his door to let me into his office, Dr. Rifkin has a gentle look of concern on his face. “I’m so glad I could get you in, Will.”

Left unspoken is the fact that it’s been years since I’ve called for an acute appointment. I’d been doing so well, in fact, that I’d cut down from weekly visits to twice a month, and now monthly. It just made more sense with how many commitments my parents had to juggle.

He leads me to the familiar couch, with its array of textured pillows. As always, I pull over the one covered in flip sequins, smoothing them down so they’re all green then drawing patterns in them to change them over to their blue side. I stare at the pictures on the wall of Dr. Rifkin with his husband and their two kids. They had just adopted their oldest daughter when I started therapy. It is wild to think that she is in grade school now.

“So, how can I help you?” Dr. Rifkin asks.

Well, might as well go with the headline. “I almost had a panic attack today.”

“Almost?” he asks.

“Well, not almost. I had one—the abdominal pain, the elevated heart rate. But I was able to control it with some relaxation techniques and mindful breathing. So it didn’t…