true colors - jb & ag 《completed》

{two}

The familiar squeeze enveloped Ariana's chest as she ducked behind the cappuccino machine. Sweat coated the back of her neck and a chill raced across her shoulders. She peeked out, searching the faces in the one-room café until she found the small blonde perusing the shelf of organic pastas and sauces. Why did she have to come in here?

Mrs. Turano hated Ariana with a passion that bordered on psychotic. Avoiding the woman did Ariana little good. In such a small town, their paths continued to cross.

The room began to shrink.

No, no, no! Not now! She lifted her eyes to the paneled ceiling as she attempted to shake the tingling from her fingers. Her second day on the job; she so did not need this right now.

"Ariana!" her manager barked. "I asked for a slice of carrot cake to go."

Wishing she could disappear, Ariana ruffled her bangs so they fell over her eyes, rushed to the display case, and squatted behind it. Her arm shook as she slid the spatula under an icing-coated wedge, and she barely managed to wrangle the cake into a plastic container before she heard the voice like nails on a chalkboard.

"Margaret," Mrs. Turano snapped. "I thought you had better judgment."

Reluctantly, Ariana stood and met pale blue eyes—the same shade as the woman's late son Daniel's—lined with a road map of red. Mrs. Turano had been drinking again.

"I refuse to be served by the girlfriend of a murderer!"

A hard silence descended on the room, every set of eyes darting between Ariana and the poor woman who'd lost her son. Which, by default, made Ariana the villain.

She longed to defend herself, to yell that she'd had nothing to do with Daniel's death. That she'd never been Justin's girlfriend. But she knew from experience that denial wouldn't help. The woman would only insist that Ariana admit Justin's guilt. Demand that Ariana denounce the only true friend she'd ever had. And Ariana would walk away without saying a word. As always.

"Claire, I—" Ariana's manager sputtered, her face flushing a deep red.

"There's no excuse, Margaret! If she works here"—Claire Turano pointed a trembling finger at Ariana's head—"then you've lost my business. Which includes catering the annual art fund-raiser and the Sleepy Hollow Ball!"

The panic attack in full force, Ariana's airway constricted as if she were breathing through a straw. Wheezing, she backed away from the counter.

Margaret glanced over her shoulder. "Ariana, take a break, now."

Gladly.

Ariana spun on her heel and ran through the kitchen and out the side door to the shaded patio. She could feel people staring holes in her back, but she didn't care. She fell into a chair and searched for her focus color. Directly across from her, above a sign advertising the CC Café, she found a sky-blue flag with a peace symbol in the center. It would have to do.

Gasping for breath, she concentrated on the blue fabric and blocked everything out. The loud chewing of the woman beside her. The scrape of iron chairs against cobblestone. The mumble of voices . . .

Inhale through your nose.

1, 2, 3 . . .

Fall into the blue.

Exhale through your lips.

After three repetitions, the fog in her brain began to clear, but the pain in her chest persisted. Her shrink had given her a "panic script"—phrases to talk herself down. Unfortunately, it only worked when she said it aloud.