Oh no. Something is wrong.
I watch as everyone clamors for Nathan’s attention and suddenly, his face goes pale. His eyes look distant and glazed. His shoulders are rounding in on themselves and he takes a step away from everyone. It’s so noisy in this tiny hallway that I’m barely able to hear him say, “I’m sorry, I’ve got to…”
He turns away from everyone and dashes down the hallway. There are about 12 bodies between me and Nathan and I push through them with the gusto of a Black Friday shopper fighting for the last doorbuster TV. “Excuse me. Just let me—ugh, MOVE, Doug!”
I emerge from the mob and stare down an empty entryway. He’s nowhere to be found. I run into the living room, but I don’t see him. He’s not in the dining room. I check outside. His truck is still parked, but he’s not out here. I’m frantic now, like I’ve lost my child in the mall. Nathan looked terrible right before he disappeared, and I’ve got to find him.
I decide to look up the stairs and peek in all the rooms. Finally, I see the door to the laundry room cracked with the light off. Inside, I find my mountainous best friend curled up in the corner, shaking. Nathan—my unflappable-Nathan—has his knees up to his chest, big arms wrapped around his legs, head dropped between them. I can hear his gasping breaths from here.
I rush over and drop down beside him, resting my hand heavily on his back. “Nathan, hey, shhh it’s okay. I’m here.”
“I can’t—” He tries to drag in a breath again. His shoulders are heaving. I put my hand on his chest and feel his heart pounding as if he just outran a bear. “I can’t breathe. I feel like I’m going to pass out.” All of this comes out in a frantic rush, like he’s desperate. “Am I dying?” he asks, completely genuine and terrified, and now I know for sure what’s happening.
I scrunch in closer and stretch out my legs around him so I can pull his back against my chest. Winding my arms around him, I hold him tight. “No, you’re not dying, I promise. You’re having a panic attack.” He’s shaking from head to toe, and my heart twists painfully. I know what he’s feeling right now. “Just listen to my voice, okay? I’m here. You’re safe. It feels like you’re dying, but you’re not. Now, all I want you to focus on is how my arms feel around you. Are they tight or loose?”
He expels a shaky breath and, after a long pause, answers, “Tight.”
“Right. I’m not letting go. Now, what do you smell?” I wait for his answer, and when he doesn’t reply, I gently ask again. “Nathan? Tell me what you smell.”
“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.
“Why do you have to handle it all, Nathan? Why won’t you let yourself rest?” I ask, looking deep into his eyes.
He squeezes them shut and tears roll out. “Because I don’t deserve to.”
“What?” I ask on an exhale.
“Bree, I’ve never had to work for anything in my life. Nothing! It’s all been handed to me. Catered to me. I wanted to work in high school, but my parents actually wouldn’t let me. Even my current position on the team is because it was handed to me. Daren, the man who rightfully earned his spot, got injured, and I took over after sitting on the bench for two years. Do you see? I’ve been given all of this success—so what do I have to complain about? What right do I have to be exhausted? None. I’m just a rich kid who was provided everything he ever needed and handed more money and more success on a silver platter.”
I had no idea he felt this way.
“So this is the reason you work yourself to death? Why you never say no to people? You’re trying to prove your worth?”
His eyes turn down again. “When I work hard, when I feel tired, it’s the only time I feel a little bit of the guilt in my chest lessen.” I want to speak to this, but he keeps going, new tears shaking his voice. “I’ve never had to go through hard things in my life. I’ve never known anything close to poverty or struggle or even just budgeting, for that matter. I have a chef, a driver, a manager, an agent—everything I could ever need, so tell me…what reason do I have to complain about any of it?”
Tears are streaming down his face, and the look in his eyes is anger mixed with defeat.
“What right do I have to resent it? To want to escape any part of it ever? No. I don’t deserve to get help for the anxiety I can’t escape. I don’t get to feel overworked. I need to keep my shit together and give as much of myself as I can, because otherwise everyone will see that I don’t deserve to be where I am.”
Nathan lets go of me to press his face into his hands. For a moment, I sit, stunned. I stare at this man I thought I knew better than anyone in the world and realize all along he’s been bottling up his feelings, his hurts, his anxiety and stress because he feels like he has to wear a cape to be a hero.
If he can bare all of this to me right now, I can do the same for him.
I pull his hands down from his eyes so I can look in them. “Listen to me. It is not the things you do that make you worthy, it’s that you have a beating heart in your chest. You have a soul, which means you are allowed to feel hurt, tired, stressed, sad, angry. All of those things—you are allowed to feel them. Everyone is.” I gather all of my strength for my next words. “Your ability to shoulder everything, to give 200% of yourself all the time, to be perfect at everything you attempt…these are not the attributes that make you a valuable human being.” I pause. “And they are not why I fell in love with you.”
His black eyes shoot up to me.
I smile. The weight of these heavy secrets falls off of me, and I feel relieved to continue. “I fell in love with you because you’re goofy. You’re fun. Your heart is so big I don’t know how it fits in here,” I say, pressing my hand to his chest. “You’re a terrible singer. You make me soup when I’m sick. You bought me tampons that time I was laid out on the couch with cramps and couldn’t move. You didn’t even send someone else for them. You went yourself!”
He chuckles lightly, and I wish there were more light so I could see his smile clearer.
“Look, Nathan, I don’t care if you never pick up another football a day in your life, or if no one in the world attaches the word successful to your name ever again.” Now I’m the one dumping tears, and Nathan’s hands have moved to cradle my face. His thumbs dash across my cheekbones.
I shake my head lightly and try to swallow down my sob enough to finish speaking. “So don’t say you’re not worthy or deserving, because you are to me. You always will be.”
Nathan pulls me closer and crushes me against his chest. His strong forearms are pressing into my shoulder blades, his face buried in my hair.
“I love you too,” he whispers over and over again. “I love you, Bree. I love you. I always have.”
