I try to nod my head but my entire body feels paralyzed. I feel the car turning and then coming to a stop. I cautiously open my eyes. We’ve pulled into a side street, lined with towering buildings. Noah is staring at me; he looks really worried.
“I’m s-sorry,” I stammer, my teeth starting to chatter. I’ve literally gone from baking hot to freezing cold in a couple of seconds.
Noah leans into the back of the truck and fetches a tartan blanket. “Here,” he says, placing it on my lap.
I pull the blanket up to my shoulders and hug it around me tightly. “Thank you.”
“What just happened?” His voice is so soft and so concerned that it takes everything I’ve got not to dissolve into tears.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. It’s all I seem able to say.
Noah pushes his hair back from his face and looks at me intently. “Quit saying that. There’s nothing to be sorry for. What happened?”
My body is still shivering violently. I feel crushed by disappointment. I can’t believe that after getting through the flight OK, this has happened again. Is this how my life is going to be from now on? Plagued by stupid panic attacks?
Noah opens the glove compartment and starts rummaging around. He pulls out a chocolate bar. “You need some sugar,” he says, opening the wrapper and handing it to me.
I make myself take a bite of the chocolate. Noah’s right: as it melts on my tongue I do start to feel a tiny bit better. “I’m—”
“If you say ‘sorry’ one more time I’m going to have to play you Sadie Lee’s favorite country ballad,” Noah says, “and you wouldn’t want that, trust me. It’s called ‘You Flushed My Sorry Heart Down the Toilet of Despair.’ ”
I give him a weak smile. “OK, I’m not sorry.”
“Good. Now what just happened?”
“I—I was in a car accident a while ago and ever since I’ve been getting these stupid panic-attack things. I’m so sor—”
“Don’t say it!”
I glance at Noah. He’s still looking super-concerned.
“That sucks,” he says. “You should have said something—before we got in the car.”
“I know, but, to be honest, I forgot. I was having such a good time . . .”
“Really?”
I look at Noah and nod. He smiles a little. Then his face goes serious again. “So what do you want to do? Should we leave the car someplace and get the subway? Do you want me to take you back to the hotel?”
“No.” Even though I’m still numb from the panic attack, there’s one thing I know for sure—I do not want my adventure with Noah to end.
We sit in silence for a moment—well, New York silence, which means there’s still a load of sirens and horns and yelling going on in the background. But weirdly it doesn’t feel awkward. Even though I’ve had a meltdown in front of a boy I really like within an hour of meeting him, it doesn’t feel like the times with Ollie in the café or on the beach. For some really bizarre reason, I don’t feel eaten up with embarrassment. There’s something about Noah that makes me feel safe to be myself.
“I’ve got an idea,” Noah says, finally breaking the silence.
I look at him hopefully.
“How about I carry on driving, but this time I take it real slow and I tell you everything I’m going to do? So if there’s a turn coming up, I’ll warn you there’s a turn coming up, and if I see anything ahead that could panic you, I’ll let you know.”
I nod. “OK.”
“It won’t last forever, you know.”
“What?”
“Feeling like this. Trust me. You know the saying ‘Time’s a great healer’?”
I nod.
Noah swivels right around in his seat so that he’s fully facing me. “I hated that phrase the first time someone told me it. I thought it was just something people said to try to make you feel better. But it’s true. Time is a great healer. You will get better.”
There’s something about the certainty in his voice and the way he’s looking at me that makes me believe him without a shadow of a doubt. “Thank you,” I whisper.
“You’re welcome.” He turns the key in the ignition. “All righty, shall we do this?”
“Yes,” I say, trying to inject as much confidence into my voice as possible.
And so we make our way very slowly through Manhattan, with Noah giving a running commentary like an alternative tour guide, except instead of pointing out the landmarks, he tells me when he’s going to “hang a left” or that we’re “approaching an intersection.”
By the time we get to the Brooklyn Bridge, I feel like I’ve managed to push a lid down on my jitters, the way you sit on a bulging suitcase to get it shut. And I’m so glad because the bridge is amazing. There are huge Gothic-style archways at either end, like the entrance to an old castle, and the whole thing is encased in steel girders so it’s kind of like driving through a long cage—which is great because it makes me feel way safer. The view is breathtaking.
“You OK?” Noah says as we get about halfway across.
I nod, my eyes fixed on the skyline. Whereas the buildings in Manhattan are mainly gleaming mirrored glass or white stone, the Brooklyn skyline is made up of browns and reds, and it looks beautiful against the clear blue sky—like autumn leaves.