Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 5

and your bullshit martyr act is getting old."
    "My what? I'm just thinking logically." And you really wouldn't want to know all the shit I deal with day to day, how unbalanced I really am, how much of a freak my obsessions and compulsions make me. The panic attacks that paralyze me for no reason at all. You don't want to know, Devon, and I'm definitely not going to let you find out.
    "Maybe you should think with your heart for a change and shove your logic up your ass. I said I really liked you, Scott. Doesn't that even register in your logic ?"
    With emotion threatening to overwhelm his composure and his eyes stinging with unshed tears, Scott turned away from Devon. "I think you should go."
    "I'm sorry. I didn't mean... I'm not trying to hurt—"
    "There's only room for so many selfish, narcissistic people in my life."
    "Selfish? Narcissistic?"
    "…And my mother has all those spots tied up."
    "Can't you just see past all the bad shit you think about yourself and believe me? Give me a little more time to—"
    "You need to go."
    ****
    The slamming of the front door cued the release of Scott's pent-up emotions, his mind and heart exploding in a gush of sobs and a crash of knees hitting the floor. The panic attack wrapped itself around him, tightening his chest, churning his stomach, sending a flurry of anxiety and fear to his brain. He knew what was happening, even knew the mechanics involved in how to make it subside, but like so many times in the past, he was paralyzed to control or rein himself in.
    He ducked his head to his chest, hands flat against the cool surface of the kitchen tiles, tiny droplets of sweat slithering from his brow to his cheeks before mixing with the salty tears that dripped over his lips and into his mouth. He didn't usually cry... prided himself on that very fact despite all the fucked-up things that made up the world of Scott Weston and the lack of support in his life. Those fucked-up things were hearty reasons why he never let anyone get close, never let anyone crawl past all the boundaries and walls of steel he'd built up over the years.
    Until now.
    Now he'd let Devon do exactly what he'd always protected himself from—he'd let Devon get inside his heart, let him become something that mattered to Scott.
    Raising his head, his mind reeling with dizziness and his stomach threatening to empty, he reached under the kitchen sink for a brown paper bag, the ones he used to cart his middle class lunch to his middle class job every day. He sat back on his heels, breath coming in short raspy pulls from his overwhelmed lungs, before sealing the bag around his lips and struggling to concentrate on his breathing.
    One M-i-s-s-i-s-s-i-p-p-i. Two M-i-s-s-i-s-s-i-p-p-i. Three M-i-s-s-i-s-s-i-p-p-i…
    How ironic was it that he was kneeling on his kitchen floor counting Mississippis after he'd just thrown out the only man who'd ever made him feel wanted and who just happened to be from Mississippi? Damn ironic is what it was. A bubble of choked emotion erupted from his throat, the bag fluttering to the floor as his lungs screamed for more air and he succumbed to a fit of hysterical laughter. A wave of thoughts echoing past experience settled in his head, reminding him there would be less damage if he prepared and accepted the reality of the panic attack's wrath. Logical. He liked logical.
    He let his body slip the rest of the way to the floor, the cold surface adding to the buzzing of his nerves and the twitching of his skin while he continued to laugh uncontrollably. He guessed it was better than crying, but he was almost certain once he regained consciousness he'd remember in painful detail all the fears and insecurities that had put him on the floor in the first place.
    That's the way it always was. He could never catch a break.
    ****
    The last place Scott wanted to be after a freaking sixty-hour work week was a goddamn rock and roll concert, and if the sounds thumping against the walls of the arena were any indication, his ears would be bleeding before the night was over. Why he had ever promised his sister he'd take his fourteen-year-old nephew to such a thing was beyond his comprehension. Hell, he didn't understand why she let him listen to that crap in the first place, and it had been his own big mouth that got him into trouble... but still.
    It wouldn't have been so bad if the show hadn't sold out so fast and his nephew hadn't been so damn crushed when he didn't get tickets. But Eddie was the