Page 31 of Heart So Hollow

And when he does, he loosens his arm ever so slightly. I feel the relief in my shoulder and, by some miracle reflex, I reel back and swing my fist as hard as I can. Somehow, I catch him solidly in the jaw, throwing his head to the side with a pop and knocking him off-balance.

Colson falls backward, the gun tumbles out of my mouth, and he throws his head to the side with a curse. I roll over, unleashing another torrent of screams as I scramble across the carpet. But Colson is between me and the bedroom door. He hasn’t moved, still on his hands and knees, breathing heavily.

Finally, he lifts his head, his mouth hanging open. Swallowing hard, he rises up onto his knees, the window panes casting black stripes across his face and torso. He raises an arm and touches his bare chest with his palm. I watch him, absolutely petrified. I want to run as fast as I can, but I’m frozen in place, shaking and crying. Colson slowly looks down at the gun in his other hand, then back at me.

Get out.

Finally, I feel a rush of adrenaline, jump up, and scurry over the bed. I keep my eyes glued to him as I move around the other side, shaking and gasping. I need to get out, escape before he decides to shoot me right then and there. I see a balled-up article of clothing on the floor and grab it. It doesn’t matter what it is.

Colson stands up and takes a few steps toward the bed, still holding the gun. I make myself take a few more steps, slowly creeping toward the end of the bed. He doesn’t move at first, he just stands there watching me. He doesn’t look angry anymore.

He finally speaks, his voice returning to its normal baritone, “Baby…”

As soon as I hear his voice, it’s like a whip crack and I leap toward the door, throwing it open and bursting into the hallway. I half run, half fall down the stairs and tear across the living room, down the hallway to the foyer, and out the front door. I grab my tote next to the door and flee the house, literally naked, leaving the door hanging open as I sprint across the grass to my car parked behind the red Bronco.

I throw my belongings across the center console, not caring where they land, as I tear through the front pocket of my bag to find my keys. Fumbling with my keys, I keep an eye on the front door to see if he’ll emerge and come after me.

I finally start the car, throw it in reverse, and whip out of the driveway. I stop at a redlight as I leave the neighborhood and take the opportunity to put on whatever clothing I grabbed off the bedroom floor. I hold it up through tears, trying to figure out how to put it on.

It’s Colson’s t-shirt.

I break down into even more of screaming mess as I pull it over my head. It still smells like him.

Later, I’ll be impressed that I drove home having a full-blown panic attack. My mind is racing, but no coherent thoughts materialize, as I’m still focused on surviving the night. After I park my car in front of the apartment, I grip the top of the steering wheel, every emotion bubbling over. I let out a primal scream and press my forehead against the wheel, sobbing uncontrollably.

After a few minutes, I take a deep breath and try to compose myself enough to make it inside. Glancing around nervously, I scurry out of the car and hurry down the sidewalk toward the stairwell. Except I don’t make it five steps before I double over, throwing up the entire contents of my stomach into the grass.

Even as I puke my guts out, I hope no one who works third shift walks by and sees a barefoot woman with crazy hair, dressed in nothing but a man’s t-shirt, hauling a tote bag and vomiting off the edge of the sidewalk in front of some unsuspecting person’s apartment. If they do, maybe they’ll decide they can’t deal with this kind of drama and just keep walking. It would benefit us both.

After a couple of dry heaves, I make a run for it and take the steps two at a time to my front door. I unlock it as quietly as possible and slowly go inside. Katie and Emma are asleep on either side of the sectional, so I take a deep breath and creep across the carpet in my bare feet as quickly as I can, just another shadow in the room.

I breathe again only when my bedroom door clicks shut and I twist the lock on the handle. I trudge into my bathroom and turn on the light, only to be met by a disheveled woman in the mirror wearing a man’s t-shirt and nothing else. My hair is a mess. Some curls stick out at maximum volume and others hang almost straight from laying on them. I turn away in despair, reaching into the shower to twist the lever. I sit down on the floor of the shower, letting the scalding water run all over me. My body aches, inside and out.

It hurts. It hurts so bad.

Afterward, I pull on a fresh pair of pajamas and bury myself in my sheets and comforter, wishing for a coma. I try to block out each buzz of my phone until I can’t take it anymore and I delete the entire barrage of texts from Colson without looking at a single one. Then I block his number.

More than anything, I want to sleep and wake up in a world where the last hour never happened.

What the hell just happened?

I cry in silence for the Colson I knew at the beginning of the night—the one I’m still enamored with, even now. And I cry in horror, never again wanting to see the Colson who wanted me dead hours later. I just hope I can fall into a deep sleep and not wake up again until the apartment is empty and I don’t have to answer any questions about the night before.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Brett

One Year Ago

“Where’s this asshole now?” Bowen spits with disgust.

Probably a congressman or supreme court justice. Isn’t that where they always end up?

But probably not Colson. He would never. Maybe he ended up living in a creepy cabin out in the mountains like he wanted, except now he also has a cellar full of missing women.

“Did you ever speak to him again?”

“No…” It dawns on me that I haven’t uttered Colson’s name once during this conversation, and I’m not about to start now. I can’t bring myself to refer to him as anything else than, he—an innocuous pronoun. “He texted me right after it happened, but I blocked him and never read them. All I could see was that night, playing over and over again,” I sigh, “and after all that, I still had to see him in class the following week.”

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