That kiss lasted slightly longer than the first one, and he talked me through the ensuing anxiety attack. He kept his hands on my shoulders, and I wrapped my hands around his wrists, holding on for dear life. That contact was another thing to ground me, to tether me to the here and now so that I could center and focus on what was real. I wasn’t in danger. Noah would never hurt me. He had promised he’d never do any of the things that ran through my head before I’d almost kissed other guys—that I’d be mocked or tormented or found lacking.

When the attack had subsided, he asked, “Are you okay?”

“I wasn’t as scared as before. I was still afraid, but not as intensely. I still wanted to vomit at the end and it felt like I was going to hyperventilate for a while there, but it seemed better? Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.”

“I was reading that another part of trying to overcome this is to challenge negative thoughts about your phobia. If your brain tells you that it’s awful and you hate it, you remind your brain that I’m a great kisser who cares about you and will help you through this.”

I smiled. Again I was touched at all that he’d done to help me. How much time and effort he was putting into this. Why was he doing all that? Was it just for the part? To be as realistic as possible? This could hardly be worth it. I felt bad for putting him in this position. I reminded myself that he’d volunteered and maybe instead of trying to figure out what his motives were, I should just appreciate that he was willing to do it and not get hung up on it.

There was one thing he’d said to me about himself that didn’t quite match what I was personally experiencing. “You told me you were impatient and easily annoyed. So far you’ve been incredibly patient and understanding with me. I don’t get it.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “It’s just different with you.” Then he cleared his throat and said, “How was that kiss? Any change there?”

“I’m not really getting anything from that part yet. It’s almost like kissing the back of my own hand. And I still want to puke and have a faux heart attack right after.”

“You are doing so many wonderful things for my self-esteem.”

I laughed.

“Time for phase two,” he said. He reached for the remote and turned the television on and pulled up his InstaFlicks account while I wondered what phase two meant. “Anything in particular you want to watch?”