Upstairs, Archer is hunched down, examining the warped area of the hardwood floor near the wait station.
“Since the boards are still buckled, I should pull them up,” he tells me. “Dry out the subfloor, then replace the boards. I should be able to match the varnish pretty well, but it won’t be exact.”
“That’s fine, thanks.” I collect a few empty glasses and put them on a tray. “Do you think you can do it soon?”
“Sure, I’ll pick up the supplies on my way home.” He pushes to his feet. “I’m working at the garage tomorrow, but will you be here on Friday?”
“I don’t know. I might have—” an appointment so a surgeon can cut the cancer out of my breast.
My fingers suddenly clench on the tray, and it tilts. Two glasses slide off the edge and crash to the floor in a spray of splintered glass.
“Shit.” The curse breaks from me.
A few customers glance in our direction. I shove the tray onto the counter. My hands are shaking. I drop to my knees and start picking up the pieces of glass.
“Hey, it’s okay.” Archer grabs a trash can and crouches beside me, a crease between his eyebrows.
No, it’s not. It’s not okay.
There are light years of distance between me and okay.
My heart starts beating too fast. My lungs constrict. I struggle to pull in a breath and can’t. Panic encroaches, the black, suffocating cloud I thought I’d eradicated years ago. Cold stabs into me, needles of ice poking my bones.
“Liv?” Archer takes hold of my elbow, his face hazy in my blurred vision. “What…?”
“I can’t…” I try to force the words out with what little breath I have left. My throat closes over on a choked gasp.
Archer’s expression darkens with concern. He lets go of me and grabs his cell phone. Past the fear roaring in my ears, I hear his voice saying, “Dean.”
Faint relief curls through me as I remember that Dean has a meeting at the library, so he’s not far from me right now. But the relief doesn’t loosen the tightness gripping my chest. I can’t breathe.
I. Can’t. Breathe.
Black spots swim in front of my eyes. Sweat breaks out on my forehead.
Allie’s voice. A glass of water appears in my line of sight, but I can’t even reach for it. Archer is speaking again, his hands moving under my arms to help me stand. I’m shaking too hard.
I pull away from him and press my hands to the floor, the shards of glass like sand under my palms. I try to press harder with some vague notion that the pain will help.
The world spins. Dizziness fills my head. I can’t breathe.
I’m going to die. I’m going to die right now.
“Liv.”
Dean’s deep voice washes over me. I feel the pressure of his hands as he grasps my shoulders and guides me into a sitting position. His arms come around me from behind, pulling me back against his chest, into the V of his legs.
“Breathe,” he orders. “With me. Count of three. One…two…three.”
Even with him here, I can’t do it. Tears leak out of the corners of my eyes. I choke in a thin, shallow breath, one that will only keep me alive for another few seconds. I’m shaking so violently my teeth rattle.
“Stay with me, Liv,” he says, his voice a low, calm stream of reassurance. “You can do this. Try again. One, two…”
His chest moves with deep breaths against my back, in rhythm with his count. I clench my fists together, squeeze my eyes shut, and fight with everything I have left to make my lungs obey the screaming inside my head.
“Liv.” Dean tightens his grip, locking me against his body. “I need you to breathe. Listen to me. I need you to breathe.”
Something in that command penetrates the black fog. His legs are on either side of me. I manage to unclench my fists and put my hands on his thighs to grip the denim of his jeans. My palms sting. I start to feel the security of the hardwood floor beneath me, the solidity of my husband behind me.
“One,” he orders, his chest moving again against my back. “Two. Three. One. Two. Three.”
Impossibly, something loosens ever so slightly in my lungs. When Dean inhales, I choke down a shallow rush of air. He exhales. So do I.
Inhale. A bit deeper, this time. My vision starts to regain focus. Exhale.