Page 83 of Heart So Hollow

Brett, you idiot! Oh my god…what have I done?

Now they’re both looking at me.

My heart races as I stare intently at Eric in the front, droning on about renovations, keypads, and gate repairs. I can’t hear anything. I feel like I’m underwater. And am I sweating? I feel like I’m sweating.

I sit, frozen, trying to melt into the leather chair. I should be used to this by now—low-key freaking out in the middle of my workday. Out of habit, I lift my pen sitting on my notebook. What the hell am I going to write? Nothing. I just want to look busy, but I still look like an idiot. There’s no way I’m looking anywhere except the front of this god-forsaken room until this is over.

God, when will this meeting end?

After such a humiliating mistake, my world instantly gets even smaller. What will be the least mortifying; shutting the door and letting Colson know he got to me, or keeping it open and knowing he’s looking at me, thinking about how he caught me staring at him? I split the difference and hide in Abby’s office eating candy until 2:10, when I hear Colson’s keys and his footfalls on the carpet.

I didn’t think this incident—or the past couple months in general—would’ve taken such a toll on my pride. I spent the last three years organizing my life in such a way that I’m never caught off-guard. I have specific routines, healthy coping mechanisms, a good—albeit sometimes faraway—support system, I stay active, I eat well, I get enough sleep, and I even managed to unexpectedly find Bowen.

But then, one day, I walk into work and my entire world comes crashing down as soon as I see Colson’s face. But isn’t that what tormentors do—show up when you least expect it? Don’t they decide to show up out of the blue and wreck everything? If Colson’s not going to wreck me physically, he’s going to wreck me mentally. And it’s not fucking fair.

What did I ever do to him?

I’ve only ever been kind to him. I even gave him another chance after he was such a dick to me in college, only for me to suffer terror and emotional abuse at his hands. Why can’t I just rage out and live a normal life out of spite? I thought I was doing better, at least until the meeting today.

But I let the intrusive thoughts win. I let my guard down and retreated to the good memories that still exist in the far reaches of my brain, to the point where I sat there staring at him like a starstruck fangirl.

You fucking idiot!

I decide to stop admonishing myself as soon as I walk out to the parking lot at the end of the day. I need to refocus and gather my nerves before I humiliate myself further. This is always the moment I relax and let my mind start to wander, on the walk to my car, back to guaranteed safety, maybe even to a bike trail for a ride.

I reach for my keys and I sigh with disappointment. I rode yesterday and didn’t plan to today, but today is when I need a good endorphin rush. I need to feel the wind in my face and work out all the pent-up stress settling in my back and shoulders. I grab my door handle, muttering and whining to myself about how it’s a beautiful day and I’m missing out on a good bike ride.

“Brett?”

My eyes fly open and I go rigid, “Jesus!” I jump in fright, catching myself against the door.

There’s no mistaking the deep baritone voice behind me. I spin around to see Colson standing between the bumpers of my Tahoe and the black Infiniti parked next to me.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” He holds his hands out in front of him, eyes wide and mouth open.

I stand motionless, my eyes darting around like pinballs.

Fight or flight, still an option.

I become acutely aware of the brick wall at my front bumper and the fact that Colson is blocking my only path of egress into the parking lot. But the threat of embarrassment wins again and I just stand there gripping the door handle with white knuckles. We look at each other, waiting to see who will have the courage—or audacity—to speak first.

“Sorry,” Colson begins, lowering his arms to his sides, “I just saw—”

“What the fuck are you doing?” I bark, cutting him off and losing my fear for an instant.

Apparently, I’m not so traumatized that I can’t cuss him out in the middle of the parking lot. Maybe I’ll die with some dignity, after all, rather than a sniveling pile in the dirt as I feared.

“Um,” Colson pauses, biting his bottom lip like he’s trying not to laugh, “I saw you walking out and I wanted to catch you before you left.”

I look him up and down. He’s not wearing his gun, his body armor, or his duty belt chock full of other deadly implements. He’s otherwise dressed head to toe in his usual ensemble of black boots, black pants, black t-shirt, and black watch.

I squint one eye suspiciously, “Why?”

Colson shrugs and plants his hands on his hips before glancing around the parking lot, “You actually looked at me this morning instead of acting like I don’t exist, so I figured it was a good sign.”

My cheeks flush with his confirmation of my worst fear—they saw me. Maybe it’s not my worst fear, but the fact that he’s calling me out for it makes me want to melt into a greasy spot on the asphalt.

“And I really just need to tell you something,” he hesitates for a few moments, “I’m sorry for what I did to you.”

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