Also... I have a lot of issues

The restroom, when I got to it, was blessedly unoccupied. It was also small, intended for single use, and had a deadbolt. So I locked myself in. And then, since I was locked in a relatively small space where no one could get to me, I was safe enough to fall apart a little. So I did.

I sank down on my heels and hugged my knees tight against my chest. It was probably as close to the fetal position as I could get without lying on the floor, but, ew, it was a bathroom. I leaned back against the door and trembled instead. And then, when I could make myself let go of my knees, I may have hyperventilated a little.

But I didn't start crying and I didn't sob, and when I was done and I checked myself in the mirror I could see that Megan's makeup wasn't mussed. There also wasn't anything in my teeth. But the evidence that Hans hadn't been lying didn't make things better, if anything, it made everything even harder to get a mental grasp on.

I was supposed to call Megan. I could finally remember that bit of advice. I wished I could follow through, but my phone was in my purse, and my purse was sitting in the booth across from Hans. Stupid, I derided myself. There would be no escaping. But that was okay, I didn't have a way out, anyway. Why is it that restaurants only have bathroom windows that are large enough to crawl out of in sitcoms?

I studied myself in the mirror. My eyes were a little red, but I didn't think anyone else would notice. My lower lip trembled with each breath. My arms were trembling, too, but I think that was just because I couldn't stop clutching the edges of the sink as hard as I possibly could. Mostly. Okay, so I was still a little shaky. And I still felt a little sick, too.

What the hell had I been thinking? Hans was a man who was so good looking he had to be used to getting whatever he wanted from women. Hell, from life: he was going to be my boss. He was already leaping to the top of the food chain, and here I was: a stupid little bunny who insisted on sticking her head in his jaws.

Or her paw, as the case may be.

I turned on the hot water and hastily washed my hands before it could get too hot. Then I stared at my reflection more, trying to see what Hans was seeing. I let the water run.

I couldn't see it. Sure, whatever Megan had done to my eyes emphasized them, but they were wide and panicked and crazy, and I didn't think long fluttery lashes could make for that. And okay, Megan had picked a good lipstick. My lips did look fuller, and maybe even kissable...but the fact was that I am twenty four years old, two years out of college, and I have never been kissed on the lips yet. So why the hell would anyone start looking at me like they wanted to now?

Hell no. No way. I had no clue what Hans was seeing. I was too scrawny to be feminine, too imaginative to be innocent, too old to be waifish and too big a wimp to be mistaken for a tomboy. I didn't know what Hans' type was, but unless it happened to be 'crazy, broken and difficult' he wasn't going to find it here. Hell, I wasn't even pretty. The best I could manage without Megan's help was 'not unattractive.'

But the man was a wolf, and I was probably going to wind up getting torn apart in the process of him figuring out I wasn't worth it.

Except he wasn't. A wolf, I mean. That was just me, re: crazy, broken and difficult. Hans had actually been quite well behaved. I was the one who'd literally shoved her hand in his face and told him to bite.

Oh, God. Did that constitute flirting? I was way out of my league. I was so far out of my league I was hiding in a bathroom, on the verge of another panic attack.

I cupped my hands and thrust them under the faucet. I'd never touched the handle for the cold water, and what was coming out now was fiercely steamy.

If you've never scalded yourself, don't start. I'd gotten into the habit years and years ago, before I'd had Megan to help me cope. Actually, it had been a few years since I'd felt the need to do this. I'd still done it a few times since then, just... well, just because. Sometimes there's comfort to be found in old habits. Even bad ones.

It only took a second for the water to fill my cupped hands and start pouring over the sides. It hurt, of course. That was what made it work. I could feel the heat, and yes, it hurt. But after those first few seconds I could feel the heat and know it hurt without actually feeling the pain. And it didn't hurt worse the longer I held my hands there... It just hurt more. It demanded more attention. It demanded to be dealt with. There were sharp, burning tingles all over the backs of my hands, where the water was spilling freely, but not pooling. It was kind of nice, like my hands had fallen asleep but instead of getting pins and needles I was just getting needles.

I wasn't on the verge of a panic attack anymore because my body didn't care about Hans or self-esteem or social anxiety or wolves, it only cared about telling me it was being hurt and that I needed to do something about it.

I took a deep breath and parted my hands. The water I'd cupped splashed in the bottom of the sink and the stream from the faucet poured through open air. I let out a sigh of relief. The nice thing about scalding yourself is that as long as the water isn't hot enough to raise blisters the pain will go away as soon as you stop. It's cathartic, in its own way.

I shook the last drops of water from my hands and turned off the faucet. My skin tingled, and there was a tightness, like an aftertaste, but for the sense of touch. It wasn't unpleasant. My hands were much pinker than normal, but I knew from experience that would fade before anyone could notice.

The bathroom had one of those hot-air hand dryers, so I turned it on and stuck my hands under it. One of the problems with water that hot is that my hands were going to be extra dry. But that was okay, I had some lotion in my purse. That's actually why I had stopped doing the scalding thing, a few years ago Megan had noticed my hands were always chapped and had bought me some moisturizer as a gift.

Where I'd grown up, there'd been a stigma attached to being one of 'those emo kids.' So when I needed to hurt myself just for the distraction from what was going on in my head, I'd always, always, made sure it was something that couldn't possibly be noticed. I didn't want to make anyone worry about me.

It seemed like that would be selfish. I was just a crazy girl, so it's not like there was anything to be done about it anyway. And besides, one of the biggest reasons I've always been hyper-anxious to begin with is that I don't want anyone to realize what a freak I am. I don't know why they haven't already, but I'm certainly not going to go around being obvious about it when I can help myself.

Also... I have a lot of issues. And knives and blood and cut, living flesh all freak me the hell out.