I’m surrounded, and Liza’s got her

I’m surrounded, and Liza’s got her claws in my arm, and Stella’s disappeared. I’m starting to question if I really saw her here. It might have been the product of my half-drunk wishes. After all, if I could hear her voice in my head, why couldn’t I see her right in front of me? But … would my own hallucination go wandering off with Markus, of all people?
Liza keeps running her hand down my hip. She’s horny as hell, and I’m fighting the urge to shove her away. “As you saw, I had a little complication,” she whispers in my ear after I’ve snagged her a drink. “Estella insisted on coming.”
I blink. Confirmation that Stella’s really here. Now we’re getting somewhere. “That’s great,” I reply, looking around for her. “You wanted her to get out of the house.” I can’t believe she’s here. How did she do it? And why? She seemed so certain she couldn’t. She was so scared. But she did it. A fidgety excitement stirs inside of me. There are places I want to take her. Things I want to show her. I want to share my world with her.
What the hell am I thinking?
“I know I wanted her to get out more,” whines Liza, “but I didn’t want her to spoil our night. So I’ve explained everything to her, and I think she understands.”
My stomach drops. “You explained …”
“We can send her home in the car and you can drive us to a hotel.”
Now I feel sick. But isn’t this what I wanted? Isn’t this my life? Isn’t this what I’ve chosen?
No, actually. Whether I want to or not, whether she wants me or not, I think I’m about to choose something else.
“Daniel, can I talk to you for a minute?” Caleb has magically appeared at my shoulder. He looks unhappy, like something’s bothering him.
“Liza, would you excuse me?” I ask.
Her fingers tighten on my arm for a second, and then she lets go. “Sure. Don’t take too long,” she says in that wheedling please love me tone.
“What’s up?” I ask as Caleb walks toward the back hallway.
“She’s here,” he says. “Liza’s daughter.”
“Her name’s Stella. And I know. I saw her with M—”
“She’s in the bathroom,” he tells me, his gray eyes full of concern. “Romy’s in there with her. She said the girl’s having a panic attack.”
Shit. I shoulder past him and stride down the hall, not even hesitating as I yank the bathroom door open and find Romy just inside, hovering near the closed door of the second stall. And splayed across the floor beneath that door are strands of long, brown hair. “Stella,” I choke out, stepping around Romy. I try to pull the door of the stall open, but she’s locked it.
“Open it,” I say to her, my heart pounding. “Stella, open the door. Now.”
She doesn’t answer. But I can hear her, breaths wheezing and frantic, squeaking on every inhale, each one a scream in my ear. I can’t stand it. I can’t wait for her to pull it together—I need to get to her right this fucking second. I reach up and grab the top of the door, plant my foot on the metal wall between the two stalls, and jerk as hard as I can. It takes three tries, but the lock gives out and the door flies open.
Stella covers her head with her hands, her bare shoulder blades sharp and fragile looking. I sink to my knees next to her. “How long has she been like this?”
“Maybe ten minutes,” says Romy.
Every second of it looks like agony. My hands hover over Stella’s trembling body. I’m not sure whether I should touch her or not. “Hey,” I say softly. “It’s me.”
She mutters something that I don’t understand. Someone knocks at the bathroom door. Caleb clears his throat. “I think we need to take this party somewhere else,” he says.
There’s no way she can go back out into the gallery space. “I’m taking her to the store room.”
Caleb nods. “We’ll give you a few minutes.” He leaves, but Romy lingers, looking at Stella with concern.
“I’ve got this,” I tell her.
“She didn’t want her mom to know,” she says. “But—”
“She’s right, Romy. Liza won’t be sympathetic … just let me handle it?” I only hope I can. I want so badly to be what Stella needs right now.
Romy nods and follows Caleb out the door. I turn my focus toward Stella. I don’t want anyone to walk in on us, and that means I have to get her out of here. “We’re going to a different room,” I say, leaning over her, my chest getting tight as I listen to her trying to control her breathing. “It’s private. No one’s going to see you.”
She’s all curled up, so I slide my arm beneath her chest, then lift, praying she doesn’t fight me. I’ve never seen her this upset, and I don’t know what to do. She sounds like she’s having an asthma attack or something. Suddenly, I regret sending Romy away, because maybe she could tell me what to say, but she’s out there trying to keep people away from the bathroom long enough to give me a chance to move Stella. I pull Stella into my arms. She might be tall, but she’s not that heavy, which is good because she’s really unsteady on her feet. Her head is bowed and she’s shaking all over. “I’m here,” I say. “And we’re moving.”
To my relief, she tucks her face against my shoulder and lets me lead her out of the bathroom. Once we’re in the narrow hallway, I glance toward the gallery to see Romy and Caleb blocking the way. Caleb’s waving his arms and telling some story, which is hilarious because he is so not a performer. But he’s trying because he’s my friend, and I will definitely owe him after this one. I turn in the opposite direction and lead Stella to the storage space, a big open room that’s half-empty now, since the pieces have been moved to the gallery. And fortunately, it’s been left unlocked since the owner was moving so many pieces back and forth. It’s cooler back here, though the smell of oil paint is a little heavy.
“Y-y-you t-told him,” she says with a shudder against my chest as soon as I close the door.
“What?” I put my hand on the side of her face and tip her head up. Mascara is running down her cheeks and her lipstick is smeared.
“Markus,” she gasps. “You told him. About the m-money I offered you. To-to—”
SHIT. That fucking asshole. Why didn’t I think of this? I was too scrambled by the sight of her to realize the danger when I saw them together. “Stella …”
“Was it funny?” she sobs between breaths. “Like a joke?”
I hold her tight. “No, it was the opposite.”
“I w-w-wanted to tell you some-something.” But then she starts to cry even harder, and it makes my eyes burn. It makes me want to shout and kick something. I clutch her to my chest, and together we slide to the floor. She doesn’t try to escape from me, thank God, because I don’t know if I could let her go.
“So this is a panic attack,” I say, wishing I had the right words. “This is what you were afraid of.”
She makes the saddest, most broken sound, her fingers scrabbling over my thigh like she can’t quite control them.
“I’m going to stay with you,” I say.
“No,” she whispers. “You don’t—”
“I’m going to stay with you,” I say a little louder. “And we’re going to do this together. It’s your breathing, right? Can we slow that down?”
She lets out a strangled laugh or scream, I’m not sure which.
“I don’t know what I’m doing.” I stroke her hair as I babble. “I’m not a medical professional, and I’m only marginally sane, and I’ve had a few drinks. But I think we can figure this out.” She’s curled up between my legs, which are arched on either side of her, containing her. I’m holding her head against my chest, wishing my own heart would beat a little steadier. But this is scary, and I hate that it’s happening to her. “How about we count?” I suggest. “Let’s count backward from a hundred.”
I know it’s dumb, but my mom would do this with me when I was a kid, when I was having a tantrum and couldn’t calm down. “One hundred …” I say quietly.
“I c-can’t,” she gasps. “Daniel …”
“You can,” I tell her. “One hundred … say it, or I’m going to keep repeating it until you die of sheer annoyance.” When she doesn’t laugh, I sigh, realizing I’m probably pushing her too hard. “Okay, I’m going to count backwards, and you stay where you are.”
I thread my fingers into her hair and close my eyes. “One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight …” As I count, I absorb every shudder, every wracked sob. And I wonder, why did she come here, if she knew this might happen? Why would she put herself through it, when she was obviously doing her best to avoid exactly this outcome? “Sixty-seven, sixty-six …” Why tonight? With so many people around? “Forty-four, forty-three …” For her first time out of the house in two months, she picked the most intimidating, crowded place. I bow over her and kiss her head, unable to hold back. She must have wanted this so badly. She looked so beautiful, in this exquisite dress, wearing makeup she doesn’t need. “Thirty-one, thirty …”
A thought occurs to me, but it seems too amazing to be true, so I shove it away.
“Twenty, nineteen …” I could be wrong, but I think her breathing is slowing down. I’ve been counting methodically, rhythmically, pacing my own breaths and making them deep, from my belly. She must feel every one, and I want her to. Right now every one of them is for her. “Fifteen, fourteen …”
She counts down from ten with me, and those whispered words feel like ten tiny miracles. When I’m done, we sit in silence, and she’s not crying anymore, though her breathing is still unsteady and shivery. I stare at the cement wall at the back of the room, keeping her against me. “When you offered me money to sleep with you, it hurt me,” I say. “I didn’t expect it to. I never would have predicted it. But there it was. I was really upset, and I made a huge mistake.”
I wait, but she’s quiet. She’s listening, I hope. “I mentioned it to Markus because I didn’t know what to do. Because I was torn up. Because I wasn’t thinking. I’m so sorry I did.