Blame It on the Blackout

“Because you seem awfully uncomfortable. I noticed it on the ride up earlier, too. We could have taken the stairs, you know.”

He shook his head. “I’m fine. I just like getting off elevators more than I like getting on them.”

That was an understatement, she thought, but didn’t say anything more since they were only going from the fourth floor to the lobby. But then the lights flickered and Peter glanced up in alarm. A second later, the entire car went dark, lurching to a stop somewhere between floors as the cables and computerized panels groaned in protest.

“What’s going on? Why aren’t we moving?” Peter wanted to know, banging on the controls as though hitting all the buttons at once would miraculously send them back into motion.

“I think the power might be out,” she told him, waiting for her vision to adjust to the pitch-black.

“Oh, God. How long do you think it will take them to get it back on?”

She shrugged and then realized he couldn’t see her. “You know how these things are. Sometimes the electricity only flickers off for a few minutes, other times it takes all night.”

“Oh, God,” he groaned.

Peter’s breathing echoed off the walls, heavy and exaggerated. She reached out, feeling for him, until her fingertips encountered the soft fabric of his tuxedo jacket.

“Take it easy, Peter. The elevator isn’t even moving now.”

“That’s the problem,” he gritted out, punctuating each word with a hard rap to the metal doors. “The damn thing isn’t moving!”

A shiver of dread skated down her spine. “I thought you didn’t like being in elevators because of that weird up-and-down sensation you get in your stomach.”

“Ha!” The sound came out strangled and his breathing grew even more ragged. Beneath her hand, the muscles of his arm bunched and released.

“It’s not elevators,” he snapped. “They haven’t invented an elevator yet that moves fast enough for me. It’s enclosed spaces. I can’t stand small, enclosed spaces.”

Three

Uh-oh.

“You’re claustrophobic?”

How could he be claustrophobic? And how could she not know about it?

She’d been working with him for two years now. She knew his favorite foods, his favorite color, his favorite pair of boxer shorts, for heaven’s sake. How could she have missed the fact that he was claustrophobic?

“Just a little.”

His response came out on a wheeze and she realized he was seriously downplaying just how upset he was by this sudden set of circumstances.

“All right, let’s not panic,” she said, as much to herself as to him. She moved closer, rubbing his arm, his shoulder. “The power will probably come right back on. Until then, why don’t you tell me how long you’ve had this little problem.”

“Forever. Long as I can remember.” A beat passed while he sucked in air like a drowning victim. “Is it hot in here? It’s too hot in here.”

She felt him struggling to shed his jacket even though she didn’t think the temperature had gone up a single degree since the lights went off. His high level of anxiety probably had his internal thermostat going haywire.

“Here, let me help.” She took the suitcoat, folding it in half and setting it aside in what she hoped was a safe corner.

“And what do you usually do when you find yourself in an enclosed space?” If she could keep him talking, maybe he wouldn’t think so much about where they were. She might even get lucky and figure out a way to keep him calm until the elevator started moving again.

He laughed, a raw, harsh sound. “Go crazy? Throw up? Pass out?”

This was a side of Peter she’d never seen before. Sure, he was slightly scattered, a bit of a computer nerd. More focused on the new program he was designing than whether his hair was combed or there was enough milk in the refrigerator for breakfast.

But, other than the occasional round of public speaking, he was also strong and self-assured. So handsome, he made her teeth hurt. And he was in better physical shape than anyone would expect for a man who spent twenty-three hours of most days staring at a computer screen. He carried himself like a man with a mission; one who knew exactly why he’d been put on this earth and was simply going about the business of carrying out that task.

Little had she known he harbored this secret claustrophobia.

“Oh, God.” He was punching buttons again, growing more agitated by the second. “We’re going to die in here.”

She bit down on her lip to keep from laughing out loud at that outrageous pronouncement. “We are not going to die. Come on. Come over here and sit down.”

Taking his elbow, she tugged him away from the front of the elevator until they hit the rear wall. It took some doing, but she finally got him to the floor.

Covering his face with his hands, he muttered, “I don’t feel very well. I think I might be sick.”

“You’re fine. Everything’s going to be fine.” She brushed his cheek with the back of her hand, finding it warm and damp with perspiration. “Close your eyes.”

“What?”

“If your eyes are closed, you won’t even know the lights are off. We’ll talk and pretend we’re back at the house, and before you know it, that’s exactly where you’ll be.”

He gave a raspy chuckle. “I don’t think that’s going to work.”

Running two fingers lightly over his eyelids, she whispered, “You never know until you try.”

His chest still heaved with the speed of his breathing and she could feel his body shaking against her own.

“You’re in your office,” she murmured, thinking she sounded an awful lot like a hypnotist. “Working on the latest version of Soldiers of Misfortune, throwing in some extra severed heads and damsels in distress. The kids will love it.”

“Too much violence. Should be more socially conscious.”

She laughed at that, knowing how much time he spent worrying that his computer games were too mature for their audiences. “You’re just socially conscious enough. Now focus. You’re at your desk, swigging down your tenth can of soda…I’ll be in any minute with your mail, and to chastise you for drinking too much of that sugar water.”

“Nectar of the gods.”

“The gods of Type-2 Diabetes, maybe.” She played with the ends of his silky hair, trying to keep him from hurting himself as he banged his head rhythmically against the back wall of the elevator.

“You worry too much about me.”

His comment caught her off guard, and for a minute she didn’t respond. She did worry too much about him, but she couldn’t help it. She cared about him, too—too much. She cared that he worked long hours and didn’t get enough sleep, that he didn’t eat right and inhaled cola like it was oxygen. And she cared that he was so upset about being stuck in this elevator in the middle of a blackout.

“Not too much,” she said finally. “Just enough.”

Was it her imagination, or was he calming down? His breathing didn’t seem quite as loud now, and the fidgeting had slowed to a bare minimum.

A minute ticked by in silence while she waited to see if he was all right. If maybe he’d fallen asleep or really believed he was in his office, working on his latest Games of PRey installment.