It's the first week of summer, thank God. The air reeks of lilacs and lake water, making the beach smell funky, like too many air fresheners sprayed in one room. I lounge on one of the old lawn chairs with a Gillian Flynn novel gripped in my hand. Wes lingers near me, but I use my book as a defense against conversation. If the rumors are true, Wes wants to get back together, and unfortunately, my family is determined to make that happen.

"Thanks again for inviting me," says Wes, leaning toward my parents.

They sit at the fire with my older sister across from them. Their faces flicker in the warmth of the flames, their bodies otherwise shadowed. The sun falls behind the mountains and the moon crawls above the horizon. It's just after dusk and the crickets and frogs are chirping loudly.

"You are so welcome," says my mother. "It wouldn't be the same here without you."

For once, my mother has a point. Our beach house would not be the same without Wes—it would be far more comfortable and far less stressful. I'd be able to swim and read and tan in peace without Wes's expectant gaze tracing my every move. He's been trying to talk with me all weekend, but somehow, I've evaded any real conversation.

"Why don't you two join us?" asks my dad. He drapes an arm around Mom and gives an easy smile. It seems to say don't we make a great couple? Don't you want to be a great couple, just like us?

"I'm reading," I say, holding up the book.

"Honey, you'll hurt your eyes trying to read in the dark," says Mom with a laugh. "Come sit with us. I feel like I've barely seen you all weekend."

That's because I've been hiding.

I hesitantly climb from my lawn chair and take a seat on one of the logs before the fire. Of course, Wes is quick to follow. He sits directly beside me, close enough that our arms touch and I can feel the slight sweat on his skin. I scoot a few inches down the bench, barely able to resist rolling my eyes.

For the next hour, I withstand horrible tortures, including s'more making, story telling, and hint dropping. Mom relives memories of my relationship with Wes, the one and only relationship I've ever had. Dad mentions that we would make a very handsome couple. Even Paige joins in on the fun, lamenting the fact she doesn't have a boy as charming and as kind as Wes after her.

"It's nice that you two will be going to the same college," says Mom. She turns her attention to Wes. "You be sure to take care of our Addie."

"Of course," says Wes, his voice husky and too-sincere.

I can't help myself—I start to laugh. Wes stiffens beside me, and Mom stares at me with gaping eyes.

"What's so funny?" she asks, a bit too sweetly.

A million things immediately come to mind, but I'm too shy to voice any of them. I'd probably piss off Wes and Mom if I made fun of their conversation.

"I'm just tired," I say finally. "I think I'm going to bed."

"It's only ten thirty," says Paige, arching a nearly-invisible blonde eyebrow.

I shrug my shoulders.

"At least let Wes walk you," says Mom—of course.

"No, I'll be fine," I say, my voice a bit harsher than I intend. I give Wes a quick smile. "You stay, enjoy the fire. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

Wes nods, but he doesn't say anything, a sure sign that he sees through my facade. It doesn't matter—as soon as I get to the University of Montana, I plan to escape my family and Wes and everything that happened in the past. For once, I won't be broken, damaged Addie—I'll just be Addie.

I trot across the beach, sand slapping into my flip flops, and head up the metal stairs to our house. It looks like every other house on this side of the lake: small with a wooden exterior and a reflective roof. My parents are in love with the appearance, but I think it's ugly, like something out of a cliche fairy tale.

I barely make it to the door before I hear her behind me. She has loud steps, like someone too tired to carry her own weight. I sigh, letting my hand drop from the doorknob.

"Addie," she says, slightly out of breath. "What's going on?"

"Nothing, Mom. I just want to go to bed."

"Are you mad about Wes?" she asks.

I slowly turn to face her, unable to hide the grimace from my face. Wes has been here for two days, and yet, this is the first time she's said anything.

"You didn't even ask me," I say finally.

"It's Wes," says Mom with an incredulous laugh. "I thought you'd be happy."

"Mom," I say, my voice cracking slightly. "It's not going to happen, okay? It's just not."

There is a long stretch of silence between us. Sounds of laughter float up from the fire—even from here, I can hear Wes's booming voice as he tells a story. It's probably one about his wrestling team, as usual.

"Addison, you can't stay mad at him forever," says Mom, dropping to a low whisper. It's one of those voices that says, you're too young to understand, so just do as I say.

"I'm not mad," I say. "I just don't want to date him."

"Honey—"

"Mom, just stop. You're being annoying."

I feel bad as soon as I say it, but it's too late to take it back. Mom's spine goes rigid, and her teeth audibly snap together. She looks like she's about to cry, but of course, she doesn't. Instead, she gives a weak nod and takes a step away from me.

"Okay, I'll just go back to the fire," she says. For a moment, she shifts from one foot to the other. "Goodnight, honey."

I want to call after her to apologize, but my throat is suddenly too dry. My eyes water with humiliation and shame, even though I don't exactly regret what I said. It's the truth, and Mom needed to hear it. I turn away from the beach and head inside the cabin, welcomed immediately by the dim hum of the air conditioning. The cool air wraps around my sticky body and straightens my mind immediately.

Even though I originally planned to read for the next few hours, I decide to go to bed after all. I take my handful of pills—Zoloft for the depression, Abilify for the anxiety—and crawl into the lower bunk. This room, shared with Paige, is just large enough to fit the bunk bed and a dresser. The walls are painted a dull yellow that reminds me of pee and the floors are stained with what might actually be dog pee.

I toss and turn for a few moments, disturbed by my slight argument with Mom. Her face looked so devastated, and I'm the one responsible for it. A twinge of anxiety roots through my body, but somehow, I fall asleep in the midst of worry.

#

Everything is black when I wake. The alarm clock on our dresser reads midnight, and I can hear Paige fumbling around the room. It takes me a moment to fully awaken, but once I do, I feel it. The stabbing, pressing pain in the center of my chest. An ungodly gasp escapes my lips as I jolt upwards, smacking my head on the top bunk. I'm too distracted by my chest to feel the throbbing in my head.

"Addie?" It's Paige, her voice still far away—or at least, it sounds far away.

"Paige," I manage. My throat feels thick, and every time I swallow, a horrible sensation crawls from my mouth to my chest.

The light flicks on, momentarily blinding me. Then Paige's blonde hair comes into view, followed by her elongated face. She crosses to the bunk in two quick steps and crouches down to my level.

"What's wrong?" she asks. Her face looks pale, even paler than it normally does, giving her an off-green hue. "What's happening?"

"Get Mom," I say. The pain in my chest feels like a gigantic balloon, slowly filling with air. But there's not enough room for the balloon to inflate, and in that moment, I'm sure my chest is going to explode. My heart is going to pop right out of my chest, splattering my insides all over the room.

Paige runs from our bedroom, leaving open the door. A soft breeze trickles from outside, warm against my already sweaty skin. When did I start sweating again? I press a hand to my face, but the chest pain kicks again, and I forget what I'm doing. With my legs pulled to my chest, I rock in a tight ball, talking quietly to myself until I hear heavy footsteps on the upstairs porch. Moments later, I feel Mom's hand on my forehead.

"Honey, what's wrong?"

"I'm dying," I say.

Mom sits with me in bed, rubbing my back and trying to work through the symptoms. She's a nurse of fifteen years, and even though she's never worked with cardiac symptoms, her presence makes me feel better.

"Do you need to go to the hospital?" she asks.

I shake my head, but then the pain flares again, this time worse than the others. Mom and Paige sit quietly as I roll around the bed, clutching my chest and moaning. The pain is too intense for crying—I instead lie with my mouth gaped and my eyes wide.

"All right, we need to go," says Mom. "Paige, go get your father."

Soon, the whole band is together, everyone but Wes. He stands at the balcony of the upstairs porch, staring at us in uncertainty.

"Are you coming Wes?" asks my Dad.

"Um, no," says Wes. He pinches his arms behind his back. "It'll be too crowded anyway."

I'm not surprised, and honestly, I doubt anyone else is. If there's one thing Wes can't handle, it's people in ill health. He's the perfect guy, the perfect boyfriend, until something happens. And unfortunately, something did.

Without Wes, my family and I pile into Dad's SUV. I roll on the backseat with my head in Paige's lap. The only thing I'm capable of doing is letting out strangled moans while pounding against my ribcage, as if my steady beats will slow my racing heart. Dad starts driving and Mom leans over the passenger seat, asking me a million questions I don't feel like answering.

"Are we almost there?" I ask for what is surely the hundredth time. I can't help it—I feel like if I'm in the car for another minute, I'm not going to live through the night.

"Almost," says Dad. He jerks the steering wheel to the left, hard enough that I nearly tumble out of the backseat.

"Honey, you need to breathe," says Mom. She again leans over the passenger seat to touch my arm. "You're hyperventilating."

The words barely process through my head. Mom doesn't get it—I can't breathe. I'm choking to death, my throat clogged by an invisible fist

"Okay, we're here people," says Dad. His voice booms like he's a drill sergeant throwing orders at a group of runts.

"Can you walk?" asks Paige, pulling at my arm to help me sit.

"Yeah," I say, even though I probably can't. I just want to get out of this car so someone can pop the balloon in my chest.

Paige slides out of his seat and offers her hand, but I brush past her, already on my way into the building. Everything happens at once: the pounding, the choking, the panicking. I clutch my chest as I stumble into the emergency room. The receptionist looks up from the couple she's helping, and her mouth forms a quick 'O'.

"Chest pain," I manage, just before losing consciousness.

When I come to, I'm in a hospital bed, half-naked. The nurses tape sticky wires to my bare chest and arms, murmuring to me the entire time. I don't feel embarrassed about the fact I'm missing clothes or the fact that Mom is watching the entire scene from the room's corner. The only thing pressing my mind is the grinding pain in my chest that still lingers. If anything, it's only grown stronger since I passed out.

The doctors are asking questions, but I loll my head back onto the pillow, letting Mom answer for me, just like she used to when I was little. What does the pain feel like? When did it start? Can she feel her left arm? The doctors spew off a series of questions, but by the end, they seem almost calm. A nurse helps me into an ugly grey hospital gown, wordlessly weaving around the wires. The hustle and bustle of the room has all but died, and now, the doctor stands at the center of the room, quietly reading over my charts.

"Is the pain any better?" she asks, turning toward me.

"No," I grunt, hand still clasped over chest.

"All right," says the doctor. "Well, I have good news for you, Addison. It looks like we're dealing with a panic attack, which is probably the best case scenario." She pauses to give me a sympathetic smile. "I know it doesn't feel like it now, but the medication will make you feel much better, okay?"

I glance down at my arm where an IV drip hangs in a coiled line from a machine. When the nurse placed the tube in my vein, I barely even cringed—a monumental accomplishment for me. I'm the type of girl who, at nineteen, still cries when getting a shot.

"Okay," I say, my voice raspy.

"Just keep your breathing steady, and you'll be asleep before you know it," says the doctor.

She and Mom exchange parting words, but then the doctor is gone. I close my eyes, suddenly feeling a little better, and try to fight the newest wave of emotion: embarrassment. At midnight, I dragged my entire family to the hospital, all because I was having emotional problems.

"I'm sorry, Mom," I say, eyes still closed. My cheeks feel hot under my skin, but I'm too exhausted to cover them with the blanket.

"No need to apologize," says Mom, taking two quick steps toward me. "Better safe than sorry, right?"

I nod, feeling like a small child again. A part of me wishes I was—seven-year-old me never had panic attacks or anxiety or an eating disorder. I was happy when I was seven and far less damaged.

"I'm going to go update the others," says Mom.

I give her another nod. When she leaves, I roll onto my side, facing away from the door. A strange sort of pressure pulls at my elbow, and I remember the IV drip. I stare down at the invisible fluid, wondering what in the Hell they are pumping into my body.

"Does it hurt?"

I look up with a start. A handsome boy stands in the doorway, dressed in a pair of dull green scrubs and carrying a box of unopened plastic gloves. I try to keep myself from once again blushing, but this time, it's impossible. He's tall, probably six foot four, with dark brown skin and wide eyes that are a few shades too light for his skin tone. Even in his work clothes, I can tell he's athletic with muscular arms and strong legs.

Finally, I remember his question. My mouth feels dry, so I settle for a quick shake of the head. The boy takes a step forward and offers a warm, empathetic smile. I wonder if he knows why I'm here—and if he does, I wonder if he thinks I'm crazy.

"I'm just here to drop off some gloves. I guess they ran out," says the boy. "I'm interning here this summer."

"Oh nice," I say, my voice cracking just like I feared it would.

"My names Alexander Montgomery, but you can call me Lex," says the boy, his lips pulling into a cheeky grin. "And you are?"

"Addie," I say. It's too soon to tell if this guy can be trusted with my full name.

"Pretty," says Lex.

His eyes dance around my face, constantly reminding me that I'm not wearing any makeup. I can only imagine what I look like: hair tangled from the lake and skin pale from terror, not to mention the unflattering gown. A part of me is tempted to hide beneath the covers, but I'm sure Lex finds me mental enough already.

"Are you going to drop off the gloves?" I ask finally.

Lex looks down at his hands, as if remembering the gloves for the first time. He gives an embarrassed smile, taps the box with one hand, and moves to the back counter. I follow his movements, and as he sets down the box of gloves, I notice another unopened box directly beside it.

"Did you really come to bring new gloves?" I ask, a daring smile on my lips. "'Cause it looks like there's already some here."

"Would you look at that," says Lex in faux surprise. "Dr. Benson must be losing her marbles. They say that happens at a certain age, you know."

"She's, like, forty," I say with a giggle.

I don't know why I'm playing into this guy's flirtations. Maybe it's because I'm exhausted or maybe it's because of the medicine they're pouring into my system. Either way, I should know better than to act coy around a guy so obviously strange.

"Are you even an intern here?" I ask, squinting my eyes. "You could be some hobo from the street."

"That's a very good point," says Lex playfully. "But actually—"

A quiet rustling at the door interrupts Lex. Mom's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. She tries to take a step backward, but ends up bumping into Dad's chest.

"Oh sorry," says Mom. "Are you a nurse?"

"An intern," says Lex. He steps forward, almost as if going to shake Mom's hand, but then stops himself. "I was just dropping off some gloves."

"All right," says Dad with an oblivious nod. He steps sideway to open up the doorway. "Will you send for Dr. Benson? We'd like to get going if possible."

I suddenly realize that all the panic and tension in my body is gone. My eyelids feel the weight of the medication, and soon, I feel myself drifting to sleep. It doesn't matter that a cute intern is standing only feet from my bed. I'm suddenly too tired to care.

By the time I awaken, I'm in the backseat of the car, driving back toward our lake house. My head is once again propped in Paige's lap, and she is stroking my hair, just as she did before the hospital. It feels as though I've suddenly been sucked into a time machine, and now, I'm moving further and further into the past, away from Lex and any sort of advancement.

I dimly wonder if I'll slip back into my old life, one with Wes as my boyfriend and an eating disorder as my best friend. But then, I realize this night will probably chase Wes away, just like my anorexia did last time.

"Where's Lex?" I ask, even though I know it's a stupid question. He was a boy I met for five seconds in the ER room, most likely some weirdo who strolls from room to room, checking out the young women.

"Shh honey, you're dreaming," says Mom. "Go back to sleep."

I realize she's right. If I think anything would've happened with Lex, had I not fallen asleep, I may as well be dreaming.