Chapter 4: Panic attack I’m fine. I’ll be fine.
The silence that followed was absolute, thicker than the one that had preceded the call. It was the silence of a door slammed shut, of a last option crossed off a list.
“No. Helen’s gonna go ahead with open house tomorrow, I really appreciate the attempt here but this is the end of the conversation. Make sure Helen gets everything she needs,” Adam had said.
Jeremiah stared at the dark screen of the phone on the table. His father’s final words seemed to vibrate in the air, a toxic residue.
“Joseph’s right. Talking to you is pointless,” Jeremiah said, his voice hollow and flat. He hung up before he could say anything else.
He stood up so abruptly his chair legs shrieked against the floorboards. He didn’t look at either of them as he turned and walked straight out the back screen door, letting it slap shut behind him with a crack.
She watched Joseph, who hadn’t moved. He was statue-still, his eyes fixed on the space where his brother had been. A single, ragged breath escaped him. He brought a hand up, quickly swiping at the corner of his eye before the moisture could betray him.
Then he pushed back from the table and followed.
She stayed in the charged silence of the living room, hearing their footsteps recede across the porch and down the wooden steps to the beach path. The house felt like a held breath around her. She walked to the window, peering through the salt-filmed glass.
They were two distant figures on the long, weathered dock. Joseph was sitting down beside Jeremiah, their shoulders almost touching.
The dock’s old pilings groaned softly with the push and pull of the tide. Joseph settled onto the sun-warmed planks, the wood gritty under his palms. He stared at the water, at the way the late afternoon light fractured on the tiny waves.
“I’m sorry about this morning,” Joseph said, the words quiet but clear over the lap of water. “I think I was scared that you guys were gonna see me fuck everything up.”
Jeremiah didn’t look at him. He picked at a splinter on the railing.
“I’m glad you were there to talk to Dad with me, though,” Joseph added.
A choked, humorless laugh escaped Jeremiah. “Aunt Helen was a stretch, but I really thought I could convince Dad.” He shook his head, as if amused by his own naivete.
“You kept me from tearing into him, so it’s no easy feat.”
“I feel like everyone’s slipping away,” Jeremiah said, his voice cracking on the last word. He pressed the heels of his hands hard into his eyes. “And the house… it’s the last thing tying us together.”
A tear tracked through the tan on his cheek, gleaming. Joseph watched it fall.
“We’re not giving up,” Joseph said, his own voice thick.
He reached over and put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. The muscle was corded tight with tension. He gave a firm, steady squeeze.
“We’ll figure something else out,” Joseph said.
Jeremiah lowered his hands, his eyes red-rimmed. He looked at Joseph, a desperate hope flickering there. “You got a plan?”
Joseph met his gaze, his blue eyes holding no easy lies. “No. Not yet.” He looked back out at the limitless ocean, a vast, blue problem with no apparent solution. “We’ll figure it out together.”
Jeremiah absorbed that. The simple promise, after the devastation of the phone call, felt like solid ground. He nodded, sniffling once. “Yeah.” the word a shaky exhale that merged with the sigh of the waves against the pilings. He scrubbed his face with both hands, wiping away the last of the moisture.
Joseph nudged his shoulder with his own, a solid, reassuring pressure. "I feel like us all hanging around the open house tomorrow and being pains in the asses is a good place to start," he said, a slow, strategic smile tugging at his mouth.
Jere laughed, the sound rough but genuine, cutting through the lingering gloom. "I'm sure Aunt Helen would love that." He shook his head, a spark of mischief returning to his eyes. "Let's fuck some shit up."
"Let's fuck some shit up," Joseph echoed, his voice low and steady, sealing the pact.
They stood up together, the old dock groaning in protest, and walked back to the house in a companionable silence filled with the crunch of shells underfoot and the distant cry of gulls. Jeremiah went upstairs, his footsteps heavy on the creaking steps, leaving Joseph alone in the dimming living room.
Joseph stood at the doorframe between the living room and the kitchen, watching the last of the sunset paint the walls in streaks of gold. "So how's Jere?" Isabel asked, stepping out from the shadowed hallway and leaning against the wall next to him.
He looked at her, really looked, taking in the concern etched around her green eyes. "I think he's okay. I told him we're not giving up," Joseph said, his voice softer now.
"Good, cause we're not," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument.
They looked at each other for a moment, the air between them thickening with all the unsaid things, the shared history humming like a live wire. "Thank you, Belly," he said, the old nickname slipping out as naturally as breath.
That name. It hadn't passed his lips since before the breakup, a relic from a time of easy intimacy. She smiled, a small, genuine thing that warmed her whole face and made something ache in his chest.
The front door swung open with a bang, making them both jump. Isabel's brother Steven walked in, dropping a duffel bag onto the floor with a thud. "Hey, I brought bourbon and bad decisions," he announced, holding up a bottle. "Movie night to commemorate this whole shitshow?"
They settled on the worn couch, Steven queuing up a loud, mindless action film on the ancient television. Jeremiah came back downstairs, his hair damp from a shower, and joined them, slumping into the armchair with a quiet nod.
Halfway through a gratuitous explosion, Joseph's phone buzzed violently in his pocket. He pulled it out, the screen's blue light washing over his face in the dark room. His expression tightened, the muscles in his jaw clenching as he read the message.
He got up without a word, the movement abrupt, and walked out the back door, letting it swing shut behind him. He headed straight for the beach, the cool night air doing nothing to soothe the sudden, sharp pressure building behind his ribs.
His breathing turned ragged, each inhale a struggle against a weight he couldn't name. His heart was beating faster, a frantic drum against his sternum that echoed in his ears.
He clutched his chest, his fingers digging into the fabric of his t-shirt. He hunched over near the water's edge, hands on his knees, trying to force air into lungs that felt sealed shut and burning.
Each gasp was a shallow, scraping thing that did nothing to fill the hollow ache in his chest. The world had narrowed to the fight for the next breath, and he was losing.
“Joseph.”
A voice called. He couldn’t hear it. His ears were ringing, a high-pitched whine drowning out the ocean, the wind, everything.
His eyes started to water, blurring the stars into smears of salt and light. He clutched his chest tighter, fingernails digging through his shirt, standing straight as a tremor locked his muscles. He was gasping for air that wasn’t there.
“Joseph, man, what’s going on?” Steven said, getting closer. He’d followed him out, the bourbon forgotten.
Joseph sucked in a breath that caught in his throat, a wet, ragged sound. He walked a few stumbling steps toward the water, as if the ocean could cool the fire in his chest. “Panic attack. I’m fine. I’ll be fine,” he choked out, the words fighting their way past the constriction.
“I’m gonna go get Isabel,” Steven said, turning back toward the house.
“No, don’t.” Joseph’s voice was a strained command. He clutched his chest again, his knuckles white. “I just—I need a minute.”
Steven stopped, unsure. “Is there anything I can do?”
“I don’t know, man,” Joseph said, trying to breathe. He focused on the dark horizon line, on the rhythm of the waves he couldn’t match.
“The beach,” Steven started, his voice calm and steady in the chaos. “The first time you guys brought me here to surf, man, I was so freaked out. You and Jere had come back from some fancy surf camp. You knew all these cool tricks.”
Joseph thought about Isabel. He forced a breath in, held it, let it shudder out. The memory surfaced, a clear image from a simpler time.
“I felt like such a little kid,” Steven continued, stepping slowly closer. “But you stayed and paddled with me till we caught a wave together. I thought you were the coolest person in the world.”
Joseph turned around, his face pale and strained in the moonlight. “I guess you were wrong about that.”
“No,” Steven said, simple and firm. “You’re still the coolest. You have these a lot?”
Joseph let out a breath, long and trembling. He nodded, his shoulders slumping with the admission. “Yeah. More since my mom died.” He turned, walking over to him, the sand giving way under his feet. The tightness in his chest was easing, replaced by a hollow, familiar ache. “I’m glad you’re here.”
The words hung between them, a raw admission in the dark. Joseph’s breathing had evened out, but a tremor still lived in his hands. He stared at the sand between his feet, grains glowing faintly under the moon.
“You wanna tell me what got you all worked up? Or just be bros and pretend this never happened?” Steven said, his voice quiet.
Joseph rubbed a spot in the center of his chest, as if he could massage the ache away. “I found out I got into Saint Arthur’s Hospital. And I get to study at Stanford.” He said it to the ocean, not to Steven.
Steven was quiet for a beat. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah.” Joseph finally looked at him, a fractured smile touching his lips. “My mom had this whole fantasy about me finding myself on the West Coast.”
“Wait, Joseph, this is a good thing, man.” Steven stepped closer, his face breaking into a real grin. “You’ve been dreaming about this since you were twelve years old.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Joseph’s voice tightened again, the joy strangled by immediate guilt. “But things are just starting to get better with Jere. And he’s going to Finch in the fall, which is close, so it just doesn’t make sense to transfer there now, with the house and everything—”
Steven cut him off. “Dude, you don’t have to decide this second or anything. Just talk to Jere.”
“He doesn’t even know I applied.” Joseph’s plea was sharp, desperate. “Please don’t tell him.”
Steven studied his friend’s face, the conflict etched there as clear as the moonlight. He shrugged, a casual roll of his shoulders meant to defuse the gravity. “I mean, Stanford’s isn’t even Ivy. So fuck ’em, right?”
Joseph let out a shaky breath that was almost a laugh. He nodded, swallowing hard. “Let’s go.” He turned and started walking back toward the glowing windows of the house, Steven falling into step beside him.
The climb up from the beach felt longer. Each step was a conscious effort to rebuild the calm facade, to lock the panic and the secret back into the familiar interior vault. By the time they reached the porch, his expression had smoothed into something neutral, if tired.
Inside, the movie’s credits were rolling. Jeremiah was asleep in the armchair, his head tilted back, mouth slightly open. Isabel was curled at one end of the couch, a blanket over her legs. She looked up as they entered.