And it might.
“Yancy,” I say, standing up from behind my desk, “I’m going to go outside for some fresh air for a few minutes. I just need to clear my head. That sandwich that Barnard is eating is making me sick.”
“It’s tuna fish.” She curls her nose. “I saw it in the fridge this morning. I almost threw it out so we didn’t have to endure this, but I thought that was improper.”
“You work for an attorney. I can get you out of trouble.” I look at her and laugh. “Throw it away next time.”
“You got it.”
She steps to the side as I pass.
“I’ll be back up shortly. I won’t be gone long,” I tell her.
I keep my eyes focused on the wall ahead of me as I make my way to the elevators.
The office is bustling with people catching up from the shut-down and gossiping about whether they really found a dead body or if it really was asbestos.
It’s only when I’m in the elevator that I can put my guard down.
I punch the number for the ground floor and lean against the metal rail along the back wall. It’s cool under the thin fabric of my dress. I close my eyes and wish I was at home.
Or at Holt’s.
The pain that the website swore I had to endure comes roaring back like it knows it has a free pass. I can’t help but wonder if I had found another website that instructed me to ignore any discomfort if this hurt would go away.
I doubt it.
This bullshit is very, very real.
The doors swing open, and I’m met with a barrage of bodies. People scramble through the lobby like ants looking for a picnic blanket.
I step outside the elevator cart and freeze.
My entire body tenses as the leathery scent of Holt’s cologne billows my way. I allow myself three seconds to close my eyes and breathe it in. Then I lift my chin and march myself around the corner.
I have to stop this.
It will get easier.
I just need to— “Whoa!”
Something, or someone, hits me from the side. I go flying across the foyer, into a mailman, and onto the cold tile floor.
The impact breaks my spirit. All of the confidence I’d managed to muster this morning drains into the floor.
I try not to cry.
I sit on my knees on the floor and let my hair hang in my face. People scurry all around me, no one giving a second thought to the girl on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
I should stand and just go to my apartment. I’m not cut out for this. Not today.
“Let me help you up.”
I still at the words coming from behind me.
And at the voice.
I tell myself it’s a case of déjà vu and that Holt really isn’t standing behind me. It’s like his cologne a few moments ago and the car I thought was his that was parked on the street by the coffee shop this morning.
It’s wishful thinking.
I press my palm against the floor and stand. Dusting my hands off, I turn and gasp.
“What the …?” I stammer.
I think I’m seeing things. But at least I’m seeing good things.
Holt is standing in the middle of the crowd. He’s dressed in a black suit with a black-and-white-checkered shirt. His tie is my favorite. It’s the one he bound my hands with.
My eyes fill with tears. I’m afraid to blink. If I do, he might vanish.
But instead of disappearing into thin air, he moves closer.
“What are you doing here?” I whisper.
“Well, it turns out I have a very important matter to take care of today,” he says gently.
He stands tall and peers down at me. His eyes are so beautiful, so clear as they search mine.
I want to pull away from him. I don’t want him to read me because I know he can. With one look, he’ll know I’m a mess, and he’ll have the upper hand. But even though I want to do this, I want to hide from him, I don’t.
Being vulnerable is a strength, and I’m just figuring out its magic. But allowing myself to be open to feelings and experiences—both good and bad—is the only way to discover the powers that lie within me.
I used to think that hiding behind a cold façade made me strong. Untouchable. Impenetrable.
I was wrong. I only knew true strength when I gave myself a chance to love and be loved.
If Holt wants to see my pain, I’ll let him.
“Good luck with that,” I tell him.
My voice stays strong, and I’m glad for it. I’m all for him seeing how much he hurt me, but he needs to know he’s not going to walk all over me either.
“Can we go somewhere and talk?” he asks.
“Nope.”
His face falls.
“Aren’t you supposed to be meeting with Landry?” I ask.