Serves Me Wright

I felt ridiculous, standing in front of them. Julian shook hands and used his considerable Wright charm with these men. Not even the wives looked my way or acknowledged me. It was as if I had entered a different era. And sure, it wasn’t like I had any business experience. I couldn’t contribute to the conversation in any way. But after meeting George, I’d been relegated to the sidelines, just like the other wives.

A wallflower to the very end. And it shouldn’t have made me panic to think about being here in this life. But when had my anxiety ever been rational?

Not any time in my lifetime. It had always come at the least opportune moments. Forcing my brain to fire on extra cylinders while also completely shutting down. It shouldn’t have been possible for it to happen at the same time, but it did. My brain whirred lightning fast, and as it pushed and pushed and pushed toward panic, everything else shut down. There was only blinding fear and desperation.

Thinking all of the irrational thoughts: I wasn’t good enough. I didn’t belong here. This meeting was too important for me to be on Julian’s arm. I was going to ruin it all. And worst of all: I couldn’t do this.

My hands shook, the tremors running up to my arms. I slowly took a step backward. Away from the men and their beautiful wives and this life I could never belong to.

Julian turned toward me. His face crinkled in concern. “Hey, are you all right?”

“Fine.”

His brow furrowed. Fine didn’t mean fine. He’d been the one to say that from the beginning. I watched him war with himself. Did he comfort me or deal with the most important meeting, one that he’d been waiting for? The answer was obvious. He had to have this meeting.

“I’m going to go find the powder room,” I said with a laugh and a forced smile.

“Jen…”

“I’ll be right back,” I told him. “Continue your meeting.”

He took a step toward me, but I turned and fled the ballroom. I didn’t want to interrupt. I needed to get to a restroom and get my shit together. Fucking anxiety. Why did it have to ruin everything?

I pushed into the restroom. A half-dozen women were inside, but no one looked my way when I went to the end of the long line of mirrors and took deep, heaving breaths, my hands braced on the cold counter. I needed to get this together. I needed to stop panicking. I needed…I needed…a Xanax.

I dumped my purse onto the counter and dug around inside. My hands were still shaking too badly that I couldn’t find what I was looking for. I jerked my Canon out of the bag and set it down as carefully as I could manage on the counter. No one else was even close to me. It would be safe where it was.

Then I rummaged through the rest of the bag for the pill bottles I always kept with me. First, my everyday anxiety pill. I dropped that on the counter next to my bag. A sleeping pill that I definitely didn’t need right now, but it helped calm my brain enough at night to finally crash. And—aha—my Xanax prescription.

I should have taken a half-pill before even coming to this thing, but I’d been on cloud nine. Everything was working well in my relationship. The sex was great. I was even sleeping because his dick apparently put me straight to sleep. I’d barely needed to take my everyday pill, but I knew better than to forget. Now, I was here, suffering for forgoing the Xanax. What had I thought—that my social anxiety would just disappear?

I popped the cap, washing the half-pill down with some water from the sink. Then I grabbed a paper towel and dabbed at my mouth and nose. I’d started sweating, thanks to the adrenaline rush from panicking. I couldn’t go back out there, looking like this.

A throat cleared in the middle of the restroom, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. Then I froze in place.

Ashleigh Sinclair stood there, watching me. I didn’t know how long she’d been standing there. My anxiety pills were still on the counter, and I hastily tossed them all back into my bag. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Ashleigh stopped in front of me. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.”

“You don’t look so great. Pale, dilated pupils, sweating,” Ashleigh rattled off my symptoms and then looked toward my bag and back to me.

“I’m fine,” I repeated more forcefully.

I turned my back on her and started the water. I got some soap and began to wash my hands, as if I’d come from the toilet. It was better than looking at her and wondering what scheme she was cooking up.

“Do you really think this is going to work?” Ashleigh asked, casually leaning her hip against the countertop.