The Cheat Sheet

“Umm…cake,” he finally murmurs, voice raspy.

“Yeah, it smells so good. It’s vanilla with sprinkles. My favorite. Do you have any tastes in your mouth?”

I can feel his breath evening out a little and the tightness in his body loosening. I resituate one of my arms so I can run my hand tenderly up and down his arm.

“Mint,” he says quietly. “I had gum in my mouth, but I think I swallowed it.” He sounds so defeated and embarrassed by that. I know the fear and mortification of having someone experience my panic attack, of being seen so out of control and frantic. I want him to know I will never view him differently or see him as less just because I’ve seen him undone.

“That’s okay. I’ve done that before. I mean, I’ve only ever been able to taste watermelon-mint ever since then, but it’s not so bad.”

I get a minuscule chuckle from him so I know he must be coming back down to me. I lean my head against his shoulder blade and kiss him there. He sinks back against me a little more, his limbs loosening slightly.

We sit like this for a few minutes, and I talk to him until his breathing sounds normal again and his weight is heavy against me. My palm is pressing against his chest, and when his hand covers mine, I know he’s feeling more like himself. He squeezes.

“How did you know what was happening to me and what to do?” he asks, his voice hoarse and broken.

“Because after my accident, I used to get them all the time. Any time I got in a car for the first few weeks, the panic would settle in. It’s the worst feeling. Like everything is closing in and you can’t escape it. Like you would be willing to claw out of your skin just to get a minute of relief.”

“Yeah,” he says weakly. “Exactly.”

Silence stretches between us. Shirts are hanging above our heads on the drying rack, and the tile floor beneath my legs is cold. Nathan’s hand falls to my shin, and he squeezes. A silent show of gratitude.

“Are you feeling better now?” I peek over his shoulder to see his face, but he turns it away.

“Yeah,” he says, though his voice shakes.

“Nathan?” I crane my neck around his shoulder, but he won’t look at me.

His shoulders begin to shake again, but it’s not the frantic sort of tremor from before. “Please, don’t…just don’t look at me right now.” He raises his hand to press his thumb and index finger into his eyes.

“

Why not?”

There’s a pause followed by a broken inhale. “Because…I’m going to cry like a baby,” he says, echoing my sentiment after my spill on the sidewalk a few days ago. “You can go back out there. I’m okay now. Just go.” He’s not trying to be mean. He’s desperately trying to preserve his dignity.

I hold on tighter. “You can always cry with me, Nathan. We’re safe with each other.”

This breaks him wide open.

He drops his head into his hands and a sob racks his frame. I hold on to him, pressing my palms into his chest so he can feel that I’m here, that I’m not going anywhere, that he could cry enough tears to fill the ocean and I would still think he’s the strongest person I know.

Suddenly, he twists, wraps his arms around my waist, and pulls me onto his lap. My legs are on either side of his, but there’s absolutely nothing sensual about this moment. I am his anchor. He wraps his arms tightly around me and buries his head in my neck, crying in a way I’m sure he never has before.

I run my hands through the back of his hair. “Nathan, talk to me.”

It takes him a moment, but finally he answers. “I’m so tired. I’ve had this tightness in my chest for weeks, and this is the first time it’s lessened at all. I feel broken. I used to be able to handle everything, but…”

“But now not so much?”

He nods against me.

“You’re not broken. Having a panic attack or anxiety does not reflect your wholeness. You’re burned out, and that’s completely understandable. You push yourself more than anyone I’ve ever seen before, and it’s only natural for you to reach this point.”

He shakes his head. “No…I can’t. I should be able to handle it. I have to be able to handle it.”

“Says who?”

He doesn’t answer me. I pull away and frame his jaw with my hands to make him look at me. Even in the dark I can see his eyes are red and puffy, and he’s deeply embarrassed. He tries to turn his face away, but I don’t let him because I need him to know I’m not ashamed of this part of him. He’s probably never cried in front of anyone in his entire life, largely due to the culture he’s steeped in day in and day out that tells him his maleness is defined by his ability to remain impenetrable to emotions.