Page 35 of Every Silent Lie
Eight, maybe nine.
The three dots on the screen dance forever, to the point I’m obsessing about what he’s saying that could take so long. And my heart sinks when I read his message.
I’ll call you tomorrow.
I drop my phone on my desk heavily, breathing deeply. Calming the storm within. Tomorrow. It feels like an eternity away from relief.
At four, I pack up and leave, clocking Debbie’s raised brows as I go. “Off to buy an outfit for tonight?” she asks as I breeze past.
I throw a pointed glare her way, and she does a terrible job of hiding her amusement.
There are no dangling elves when I make it to the elevator, and a mild, unfamiliar pang of guilt grabs me as I look over my shoulder toward Crystal’s office. “Shit,” I murmur, backing away from the doors currently sliding open, and doing the right thing. Her door is open, so there’s no need to knock. Fucking hell, her office looks like Christmas threw up all over it. “Is that fake snow?” I blurt, looking at my feet as I tread on the spot, frowning at the white puffs of something sticking to the soles of my heels.
Crystal looks up and leans back in her chair, wary. “Thomas told me to fill my boots.”
I laugh sardonically. “And you sure did.” And now this fucking snow is filling my boots.
“Can I help?”
“I um . . . I . . .” Goddamn it. “I’m sorry about how I behaved this morning.”
She stares at me and says absolutely nothing, quite happy to watch me squirm on the threshold of her office. She has every right to relish my unusually acquiescent state.
“Okay then.” I turn.
“Camryn?”
Looking back, I see she’s stood up. I’m quite sure I don’t like the bravery coming back at me. Bravery mixed with curiosity. “Why do you hate Christmas so much?”
“I—”
“It’s just that, well, if we knew, maybe we would understand.”
“I—”
“And could be more sensitive.”
“Will you let me fucking speak?” I snap, and immediately regret it. Crystal jumps, startled, then lowers to her chair like a scorned child. I push my fingertips into my temple. Because my love of Christmas was stolen when my entire world fell apart. “It’s personal.”
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry for snapping.”
“No problem.”
“Okay. I’ll be going then.”
“Enjoy this evening.”
“I won’t.” I leave before she can push, or maybe point out she’s no closer to understanding my aversion to the holidays, stopping at the elevator to lift a foot in turn and brush off the white stuff. And now I have to face the shops and find something to wear to this glamorous gala thing that I’m obliged to attend.
Something Christmassy.
I don’t think so.
My body refuses to take me farther into the clothes store, unwilling to expose me to the bedlam. It’s organised chaos. Sequins, glitter, and sparkles litter the space, every man and his dog rummaging through the rails. Which is fine. I don’t need to wrestle my way through this crowd, elbow people out of the way, or fight over the last size in any of the festive pieces on offer. I’m looking for something less . . . triggering.
Bypassing the throngs of shoppers in the party section, I make my way to the back of the store and start sifting through the rails. It takes me less than a minute to find something suitable.
