“If I say no, will you explain it more?”
She smiles. “No.”
Chapter Eight
Anxiety is like walking through a dark tunnel with no lights at either end. Except it’s not even a real tunnel, it’s an imaginary tunnel. You aren’t actually in the dark, confined space, it just feels like it.
Even if you’re out in the open air, all you can see is the darkness.
This is me. Trapped in a tunnel of my own making.
I know this. Logically, I know it’s all in my head. I’ve gone to therapy, I’ve tried the pills, I’ve heard the theories and used the various tools to soothe the monster under the bed. But it doesn’t make it go away. It doesn’t make the fake monster any less real. The monster is still there, waiting to jump out and scare me as soon as I let my guard down.
I have to change me, and to get through this, that means I have to talk to Alex.
I think.
Either way, I’m going for it. I’m going to have a conversation with Alex and I’m not going to freak out and he’s going to invite me to the show again and I won’t leave, I’ll be normal. I’ll just talk to him. People talk every day. All the time. Most people can’t shut up. I can be that person.
Footsteps pound the pavement behind me, thumping in time with my heart.
“Hey, Jane. You okay?”
I try to breathe through the nerves. “No. Not really.”
“How did the pitch go?”
“It didn’t go well at all. Terrible, actually. Really, really bad. Horrible.”
I wait for him to invite me to his show. But he doesn’t. He says, “I’m so sorry, Jane.”
And that’s it.
I stare at him. Waiting.
He glances back at the building. “You’re leaving?”
“Yeah. I need to go home.” I widen my eyes, lifting my brows, as if the motion might compel him to ask the question. Why isn’t he asking? Didn’t he ask yesterday when I told him it went badly? What else did I tell him? I try to remember but it’s hard to think straight when my stomach is rolling and my knees are shaking.
“Do you need a ride?”
“No, I don’t need a ride. I—” I need you to ask me to your show. The one I’m not supposed to know anything about yet.
My face heats. Nerves collide inside like pinballs in a machine. The tunnel shudders and shakes around me. I can’t panic in front of him, even if he won’t remember it tomorrow.
“I-I gotta go. Bye.”
I walk away, confusion thrumming through me. I need to calm down and think. Why did he ask me yesterday and not today? Or any other day, for that matter? Yesterday was the first time he invited me. My steps slow. He only invited me when I told him—“I got fired!” I blurt out, spinning around, ready to march back and tell him.
But he’s already gone.
“Hey Jane, you okay?”
“No. I got fired.” The words are quick and high pitched and loud. An embarrassing gunshot of words. Gah, I annoy myself sometimes.
His mouth pops open in shock. “Um. You. What?”
I guess I’m not usually so forthright. Or shrill.
My face heats. My nerves spin around in my stomach like I’m stuck on a wonky carousel from hell. The tunnel is collapsing.
Dammit.
I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again. Close it. Ugh. Spinning on a heel, I flee.
“Hey Jane, you okay?”
Play it cool, Jane. I’ve been practicing. It’s a script now. I can do this.
“I’m,” I clear my throat, “not great. The pitch didn’t, um, it didn’t go good.”
I could never be an actor. I can barely speak. I’m like the animated version of the children’s books written with my namesake. See Jane run. See Jane fail. See Jane pull her tongue out and stomp on it for all the good it’s doing her.
“What happened?”
“I got fired.”
“Oh, Jane. Hey,” he dips his head to meet my eyes, “that really sucks.”
“Yeah.” I sigh and look into the distance, giving it my best thousand-yard stare. Be forlorn. So sad. So, so sad you should invite me out. Don’t I look like I need a night out?
“Hey listen, I’m in a band. We have a gig tonight. I mean, it’s not a big thing, we’re the opening act and it’s at the Saloon, but you should come. I’ll buy you a drink.”
“Yes. Oh, um. I mean, yeah, cool. Maybe. Maybe I’ll see you there.” I back up slowly.
Walk away before you screw this up somehow.
I spin around to stalk off.
“Eight o’clock!” he calls after me.
And I’m very glad I turned around before he could catch the full-on grin stretching my face. I did it! I wave a hand behind me in acknowledgment and keep walking.
Time to prepare.
I spend the rest of the day coming up with a list of things to talk about. I don’t know why I haven’t done this before. Lists are my jam, my go-to strategy almost every time I have to talk to people, or in front of a group. I use them for everything. Make a list, memorize it, repeat it over and over so I can hopefully speak through my nerves without stuttering too much, or sounding like a complete dolt.
I sit in my living room with my notebook and brainstorm.
I can ask him about the band, how he got started, why there’s only two of them . . . Wait, is that an offensive question? What if it’s because they suck and can’t get anyone else? I mean, they seemed good to me, but what do I know? I cross it out.
I can ask about his family, maybe? Is that boring?
I suck at this.
I definitely don’t want to talk about
