Chapter 76 Three Days Before
Crew's POV,
Three days before the wedding, I had a panic attack in Dr. Okonkwo's office.
Not a small one. Not the kind I could breathe through and move past. A full-blown, can't-catch-my-breath, room-spinning panic attack that came out of nowhere during a routine therapy session.
We'd been talking about normal things. How practice was going. My sleep schedule. The wedding logistics. Nothing triggering. Nothing intense.
Then Dr. Okonkwo asked a simple question: "How are you feeling about getting married?"
And suddenly I couldn't breathe.
My chest locked up. The room tilted. My hands started shaking. I tried to answer but no words came out, just this gasping sound that didn't belong to me.
"Crew." Dr. Okonkwo's voice was calm, steady. "You're having a panic attack. That's all this is. You're safe. Focus on my voice. Can you hear me?"
I nodded. Barely.
"Good. Now breathe with me. In for four counts. Hold for four. Out for four. Hold for four. Watch my hand." She raised her hand, moving it in a square pattern. "In, hold, out, hold. Follow the square."
I tried. Failed. Tried again. Eventually my breathing started to match hers. Slow. Controlled. The room stopped spinning.
After five minutes, I could speak again. "Sorry. I don't know what—I'm fine. I'm okay."
"You're not okay. You just had a significant panic attack." She leaned forward. "Crew, what triggered that? What were you thinking about right before it hit?"
I stared at the floor, trying to piece it together. "You asked how I felt about the wedding. And I was going to say I'm excited. But then I thought—what if I'm not ready? What if I mess this up? What if I relapse and destroy everything Harper and I built?"
"So the panic isn't about marrying Harper. It's about failing her."
"I guess. Yeah." I rubbed my face. "I'm seventy-seven days clean. That's nothing. That's barely three months. What if marriage is too much pressure? What if I can't handle it?"
"What specifically do you think you can't handle?"
"All of it. Being a husband. Being someone Harper can rely on. Being the partner she deserves instead of the disaster I was four months ago." The words tumbled out now. "Dr. Okonkwo, I overdosed on a practice rink. I spent three years destroying myself with pills. I almost died. And now I'm supposed to get married and promise forever to someone when I can't even promise I'll stay clean tomorrow?"
"Can anyone promise forever? Can Harper promise she'll never get sick? Never change her mind? Never have doubts?"
"That's different."
"Is it? Or are you holding yourself to an impossible standard because you think you're inherently broken?" She pulled out her notepad. "Crew, let me ask you something. Do you trust Harper?"
"Completely."
"Do you love her?"
"More than anything."
"Do you want to spend your life with her?"
"Yes. Of course."
"Then why do you think you'll fail?"
I was quiet for a long moment. "Because I've let everyone down before. My mom. My teammates. Myself. I have a track record of destroying good things."
"Past behavior doesn't dictate future outcomes. Not when you've done the work you've done. Not when you're actively in recovery." She set down her notepad. "Crew, here's what I think is happening. You're scared. Not of marriage. Not of Harper. Of yourself. Of trusting that you're capable of being the person you want to be."
"How do I fix that?"
"You don't fix it. You practice it. Every day, you wake up and choose to trust yourself. Choose to believe you're worthy of the life you're building. Choose to believe Harper when she says she loves you and wants to marry you." She paused. "Can you do that? For three more days? Just practice believing you're worthy?"
"I can try."
"That's all recovery is. Trying. One day at a time. One choice at a time."
I left the session feeling shaky but steadier. Got in my car. Sat there for ten minutes before starting the engine.
My phone buzzed. Text from David: How'd therapy go?
I typed back: Panic attack. About the wedding. Not about marrying Harper—about failing her.
That's normal. Cold feet disguised as fear of inadequacy. Want to talk?
Yeah. Can I call you?
He answered immediately. "Talk to me."
So I did. Told him everything. The panic attack. The fear. The conviction that I was going to mess everything up.
David listened without interrupting. When I finished, he said: "You know what this is? This is your disease lying to you. Telling you you're not worthy. That you'll fail. That you should run before you hurt someone you love. That's addiction talking, not reality."
"How do you know?"
"Because I said the exact same things to myself before I married my wife eight years ago. Had a full breakdown three days before the wedding. Called my sponsor crying that I was going to ruin her life. Know what he told me?"
"What?"
"He said, 'You're going to mess up sometimes. That's being human. But your wife knows who you are. She's choosing you anyway. Trust her judgment even when you don't trust yourself.'" David's voice got softer. "Crew, Harper knows you're in recovery. She knows it's hard. She's choosing to marry you anyway. Stop trying to protect her from yourself. Let her make her own choices."
"What if I relapse? What if I let her down?"
"Then you'll deal with it together. But you can't live your life waiting for disaster. You have to actually live it." He paused. "Three days, man. Can you handle three more days without spiraling?"
"I can handle three days."
"Good. Call me tomorrow. Check in. We'll get you to that wedding."
After the call, I drove home. Harper was already there, sitting on the couch with her laptop, working on clinic scheduling.
She looked up when I walked in. Saw my face. Set the laptop aside immediately.
"What happened?"
"Panic attack. In therapy. About the wedding."
Her expression shifted. Concern. Fear. "Are you having second thoughts? About marrying me?"
"No." I sat next to her, grabbing her hands. "Not about marrying you. About whether I'm capable of being the husband you deserve. Whether I'm too broken to be a good partner."
"Crew—"
"Let me finish. I'm seventy-seven days clean. That's nothing. I could relapse tomorrow. Next week. Next month. And you're about to legally tie yourself to me. To all my mess. All my baggage. All the ways I might fail." My voice cracked. "Harper, you deserve someone who has their shit together. Not someone who's still figuring out how to function without pills."
She was quiet for a moment. Then: "Do you think I have my shit together?"
"What?"
"Do you think I'm some perfectly functional person with no issues?" She pulled her hands away. "Crew, three months ago I was broke and facing prison time and living on my best friend's couch. I've spent ten years making myself small for men who didn't value me. I have control issues and abandonment trauma and I'm terrified of being a burden. I'm a mess too."
"That's different—"
"It's not different. We're both imperfect people trying to build something together. That's what marriage is. Not two perfect people. Two messy people who choose each other anyway."
"But what if I relapse? What if I destroy everything we've built?"
"Then we'll deal with it. Together. But Crew, you can't marry me while already planning for failure. You have to actually show up. Actually try. Actually believe this can work." She moved closer. "I'm not marrying you because I think you're perfect. I'm marrying you because you're doing the work. Because you show up. Because you're honest about your struggles instead of pretending you're fine. That's what I need. Not perfection. Presence."
"I'm scared."
"I know. I'm scared too. But we're doing it anyway." She took my face in her hands. "Crew Lawson, in three days I'm marrying you. And I need you to believe you're worthy of being married. Can you do that? For three days? Just practice believing you deserve this?"
I thought about Dr. Okonkwo saying the same thing. David saying the same thing. Everyone telling me to trust myself.
"I can try," I said.
"That's all I need. You trying."
We sat on the couch for a long time, holding each other. Not talking. Just existing together in the discomfort.
Eventually Harper's stomach growled. She laughed. "I haven't eaten since breakfast. Too busy with clients."
"Let me cook. I've been practicing."
"You've been practicing cooking?"
"Breakfast mostly. But I can probably handle dinner without burning down the kitchen."
I made pasta. Not fancy—just spaghetti with jarred sauce and frozen meatballs—but I didn't burn anything and it was edible. Harper ate two helpings, which I took as a victory.
"This is good," she said. "When did you learn to cook?"
"YouTube. And trial and error. Lots of error." I twirled pasta on my fork. "I wanted to be able to contribute. Do things for you instead of just being the person you take care of."
"I don't take care of you. We take care of each other. There's a difference."
"Still. I wanted to learn. So I did."
After dinner, we did dishes together. Harper washed, I dried. She told me about Brianna—still at the hospital, contractions stopped, baby stable, Joel arriving tomorrow.
"Are you going back?" I asked.
"Probably. Just to check on her. Make sure she's not alone." She handed me a plate. "I know it's weird. Helping the person who hurt me. But it feels right. Like closing a loop."
"You're a better person than me. I'd have left her at the hospital."
"No you wouldn't. You'd have done the same thing. You're just better at pretending you're heartless." She smiled. "But I know the truth. You're soft. You care about people. You just hide it behind hockey player stoicism."
"Don't tell anyone. It'll ruin my reputation."
"Your secret's safe with me."
We fell asleep early, both exhausted from the day. But around midnight, I woke up. Panic creeping back in. That voice in my head saying you're going to fail, you're going to relapse, you're going to destroy everything.
I got out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake Harper. Went to the balcony. Called David even though it was late.
He answered. "Talk to me."
"I can't shut my brain off. It keeps telling me I'm going to mess this up."
"What does Harper say when you tell her that?"
"That we're both messy. That marriage isn't about perfection. That I just need to show up and try."
"Then believe her. She knows you. She's choosing you. Trust her judgment."
"What if I can't?"
"Then fake it until you believe it. That's what I did. First year of marriage, I woke up every morning convinced I was going to ruin my wife's life. Eventually I stopped thinking that. But it took time." He paused. "Three days, Crew. You can fake confidence for three days. Then you'll be married and it'll be too late to spiral."
"That's terrible advice."
"It's honest advice. And it worked for me. Now go back to bed. Stop catastrophizing. Get married on Friday. Build your life."
I went back inside. Harper was awake, sitting up in bed.
"Panic again?" she asked.
"Yeah. Called David. He told me to fake confidence until I believe it."
"That's actually good advice." She patted the bed next to her. "Come here. Let's practice."
"Practice what?"
"Believing you're worthy. Say it out loud. 'I'm worthy of being married to Harper.'"
"That's cheesy."
"Say it anyway."
"I'm worthy of being married to Harper."
"Again. Like you mean it."
"I'm worthy of being married to Harper."
"One more time."
"I'm worthy of being married to Harper."
She kissed me. "See? You just practiced believing it three times. Do that for three more days. Eventually your brain will catch up."
We fell asleep tangled together. Three days until the wedding. Three days until forever.