by Misha Bell
“Now there’s that smile,” Darian says, unaware or uncaring that my grin is at his expense. “Keep it up.”
He grabs the remote and turns up the volume on the TV in time for me to hear Kacie say, “Our hearts go out to the victims of the earthquake in Mexico. To donate to the Red Cross, please call the number at the bottom of the screen. And now, a quick commercial—”
“Sasha?” A man pops his head into the dressing room. “We need you on stage.”
“Break a leg,” Darian says and blows me an air kiss.
“In these shoes, I just might.” I mime catching the kiss, throwing it on the floor, and stabbing it with my stiletto.
Darian’s laugh grows distant as my guide and I leave the room, heading down a dark corridor. As we approach our destination, our steps seem to get louder, echoing in tune with my accelerating heartbeat. Finally, I see a light and hear the roar of the crowd.
This is how people going to face a firing squad must feel. If I weren’t medicated, I’d probably bolt, my dreams be damned. As is, the guide has to grab my arm and drag me toward the light.
Apparently, the commercial break will soon be over.
“Go take a seat on the couch next to Kacie,” someone whispers loudly into my ear. “And breathe.”
My legs seem to grow heavier, each step a monumental effort of will. Hyperventilating, I step onto the platform where the couch is located and take tiny steps, trying to ignore the studio audience.
My dread is so extreme that time flows strangely; one moment I’m still walking, the next I’m standing by the couch.
I’m glad Kacie has her nose in a tablet. I’m not ready to exchange pleasantries when I have to do something as difficult as sitting down.
Knees shaking, I lower myself onto the couch like a fakir onto a bed of nails (which is not a feat of supernatural pain resistance, by the way, but the application of scientific principles of pressure).
Time distortion must’ve happened again, because the music signifying the commercial break comes to an abrupt close, and Kacie looks up from her tablet, her overly full lips stretching into a smile.
The pounding of my pulse is so loud in my ears I can’t hear her greeting.
This is it.
I’m about to have a panic attack on national TV.
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About the Author
I love writing humor (often the inappropriate kind), happy endings (both kinds), and characters quirky enough to be called oddballs (because… balls). If you love your romance heavy on the comedy and feel-good vibes, visit mishabell.com and sign up for my newsletter.
