William realized his hands had stopped shaking. His body temperature had calmed. Funny thing about anxiety attacks—they kick your ass when they show up, but you don’t notice when they’ve slipped out the back door. Or maybe I’ve found a way to trump whatever disaster I’ve encountered at the moment by reminding myself that something even worse could be happening at any moment.

“Is this is a pity party for one or are guests invited?” the imagined Roxy said, looking over her glasses at him.

Truth be told, I don’t feel sorry for myself. I’m just angry. With the tabloid reporters, with my stupid and repeated mistakes, and with not knowing the truth after all this time.

After eavesdropping on Nanna and Roxy’s conversation, and knowing his grandmother was in a deep stage of grief, William had stifled his nagging questions. He’d saved his frustrations for the blowout with his brothers after his drunken arrival at the funeral, a version of the same fight they’d had almost their entire lives. Greg had torn into him about his lack of respect. Brian then stepped up to the plate, calling him irresponsible, complaining how everyone coddled him. He even went so far as to say that if William hadn’t run off into the woods that night he and Greg were camping, their lives would be completely different.

Then came the shoving and a toppled lamp, William chastising Brian for never taking his side, saying that his brother knew the truth too. Brian had seen the light, he’d seen what happened.

Brian had picked up the lamp and hurled it against the wall, asking how long he was supposed to feel guilty, that he had been just a kid too, who was completely traumatized about seeing his brother disappear in what seemed to be a bolt of lightning.

He’d held his index finger inches from William’s face, saying how tired he was for feeling responsible for him, and that he needed to take ownership for his actions for once in his damn life.

William had told both his brothers to go to hell and jumped in his Jeep. He’d meant to drive to the suburb of Bellevue and the condo of a girl he’d casually dated—dating being a prim word for it. But instead he’d passed her exit and kept driving west.

He’d realized it, then—how the weight of the world slowly lifted from his shoulders with every mile. The farther away he drove, the more he understood that the anxiety had a message for him: Get the hell out of Dodge. It had plagued him for months: a nagging feeling to escape, to move on. It was bold and determined, starting with a whisper and then shouting that he was in the wrong place and needed to leave. He’d tried to ignore it, but once he succumbed, he was almost euphoric.