Her hands are still on my face. My arms are wrapped around her waist. I don’t remember grabbing her, but I still manage to be careful of her newly tattooed side. My hands must have acted on their own accord, needing her as badly as the rest of me did. But I want to feel more than just her back through her hoodie. I dream of her skin sometimes, of the way it feels when I accidently brush against her. The idea that I get to touch her now, on purpose, makes me giddy.
I slowly rub one palm up over her back, around her shoulder, and down her arms. When I reach the hem of her sleeve, I gently push it back. There’s a swatch of leather beneath my fingers, and it takes me a moment to realize it’s that bracelet she sometimes wears. As I allow my fingers to slid past it, to the soft skin of the inside of her wrists, she jerks her hand away as if burned.
“Daisy?”
She practically leaps out of my arms so that her hip hits the wall beside us. She’s breathing heavily, her eyes wide and panicked, her face red.
“Are you okay? Did something—”
She turns away from me, her hands going to her face. I watch, stunned, as her shoulders rise and fall with each gasp of breath she takes. Is she having an asthma attack? Daisy doesn’t have asthma.
“What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?” I can’t imagine what I could have done, what could cause this kind of reaction, but she won’t turn back to me, and I can’t see her face. “Daisy?”
“I just,” she gasps, her voice high pitched and reedy. “I just need a minute, please.”
I gingerly reach out to touch her shoulder, thinking I should comfort her.
She jumps again. “Don’t touch me!”
I stare at her back, aghast.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s not your… not your…” She’s taking in huge gulps of air, the sound so tortured I’m getting scared.
I turn in a panic, thinking of finding Natalie, of calling for help, but Daisy reaches out a hand, stopping inches before she makes contact. “Please. Just give me a minute.”
“Okay.”
Turning her back to me again, she sinks to her knees, leaning heavily on the wall. She takes deep breaths, which slowly sound less and less tortured until I could almost describe them as meditative. After what feels like an eternity, she stands and faces me. Well, her body faces me. Her face is trained directly on the ground. I’m desperate to see her eyes, to get some sense of what is going on in her mind right now.
“I’m very sorry,” she says, raspy and low. “That was not your fault.”
“What happened?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Daisy—”
“No, I mean I can’t. Not right now. Not without it happening again. Please, don’t ask me right now, Daltrey.”
I’m torn. I’m desperate to know what’s wrong, yet I want to protect her—even from my own questions. I risk just one. “Was that a panic attack?”
She nods, her head still down.
Since when does she get panic attacks? Is this what nearly happened in the van a few days ago? How could I not know about this?
“Will you take me back to the hotel, please?” she asks, her voice sad. “I’m sorry to ruin such a nice evening.”
“You didn’t ruin anything, Daisy.”
Her eyes flick up briefly, to the champagne on the table and the view beyond it, and I’m pretty sure I see tears on her cheek. But she just shakes her head again, either at herself or at me, and turns toward the elevator.
We ride home in silence. I have no idea what to say to her. I want to comfort her, hold her, but I’m afraid anything I do will set her off again. And I couldn’t stand that. I already feel like the worst kind of shit for bringing on that reaction once. I don’t think I could handle breaking her again, not like that.
When we’re close to the hotel, I lean forward to ask Benny to drop us off at the front, thinking Daisy should get inside quickly, but she interrupts me with a strangled cry. “No!”
“What—”
“The photographers. The fans. They can’t… I can’t. Not right now.”
Benny meets my eyes in the rearview mirror, and I can tell he’s concerned. I nod, and he turns for the parking garage entrance. Daisy has her seatbelt unbuckled before Benny even turns off the car.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, to him or me or both of us, before pushing open her door and running toward the stairs.
“Daisy!” I call after her.
“Is she okay?” Benny asks as I fumble with my seatbelt.
“I have no clue,” I mutter, finally freeing myself so I can follow her. But I’m too late. She’s not in the stairwell, and she’s not in lobby. She’s gone, leaving me to wonder, yet again, how in the hell I messed everything up so badly.