“I’m sorry,” I say again, even though it’s lame. I’m at the elevator, and the doors open the instant I press the button. I’m relieved; I was afraid I’d have to wait for it. But then I realize that Damien is on the premises, so of course his elevator is going to be parked wherever he is.
I step inside and stand erect until the doors shut tight. Then I melt against the glass panel and let the tears flow. I have fifty-seven floors to get them out of my system. No, sixty, because my car’s on the third parking level.
When the car eases to a stop, I hastily wipe my face and stand up straight, sliding my mask back into place as I fluff my hair and flash a quick smile at the mirror. Perfect.
But my act isn’t necessary. There’s no one waiting when the doors open. Still, I keep the mask on and the act up as I make the long walk across the Stark Tower side of the parking structure to the area beneath the bank building wherein C-Squared is housed. My car is on the far side, and I’m walking fast now, because I can feel the cracks all over me. I’m going to shatter soon, I know it, and I need to be in my car when I do.
It’s right there, parked opposite the stairwell. The whole corner is dark and despite being open, it makes me twitchy. I reported it to the property manager my first day, but so far they’ve yet to put in a new bulb. Once again, I remind myself to ask Carl for another assigned space, because this corner is too damned creepy.
I hurry to the car and shove the key in the lock—because my Honda’s almost fifteen years old, and I don’t have a keychain remote. I yank the door open, then slide inside, letting the familiar sounds and smells surround me. I tug on the heavy door and the instant it slams shut, I lose it. Tears stream down my face, and I alternately clutch and pound on the steering wheel. Hitting and slamming and pummeling until the heel of my hand is red and raw and sore. I’m shouting, repeating a chorus of “no, no, no,” but I don’t even realize it until my voice fades, raw and raspy.
Finally my tears are spent, but my body doesn’t seem to realize it. I convulse, hiccuping painfully as I try to breathe in and out and gather some control.
It takes a while, but I finally quit shaking. My hand is unsteady as I try to insert the key into the ignition. I can’t manage. Metal scrapes against metal. I drop the key ring. Fumbling, I bend down to pick it up again, only to whack my forehead on the wheel. I clutch the keys tight and curse, and pound my fist against the wheel one more time.
The tears are welling again, and I breathe deep. It’s too much, too fast. The move, the job, Damien.
I want to crawl out of my own skin. I want to escape. I want—
I grab a handful of my skirt and thrust it up so that the material is gathered at my hips, exposing a triangle of panties and my bare thighs above the stockings.
Don’t.
Just a little. Just this once.
Don’t.
But I do. I spread my legs and press the key into the soft flesh of my inner thigh. Once upon a time, I kept a knife on my key ring. I wish I still had it. No. No, I don’t.
The key’s teeth bite into my skin, but it’s nothing. Mosquito bites. I need more if I’m going to keep the storm at bay—and it’s that realization of my need that hits me like a slap in the face.
Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, what the fuck am I doing?
Before I can talk myself out of it, I shove open the door and toss the keys out into the dim parking garage. I hear them skitter across the asphalt. I don’t see where they land.
I sit there breathing deeply, telling myself that’s not who I am. I haven’t cut for over three years. I fought, and I won.
I’m not that girl anymore.
Except of course, I am. I’ll always be that girl. I can wish all I want, and I can run across the country, but those scars don’t go away, and they won’t stay hidden forever.
I guess I learned that the hard way. That’s why I ran from Damien, isn’t it? And that’s why I’ll keep on running.
A wave of loneliness crashes over me, and I think about what Ollie said. About how nothing would change. About how I could call him anytime I needed him.
I need him now.
I reach into my purse and pull out my phone. I have Ollie on speed dial and I punch in the number. It rings. Once. Twice. On the third ring, a woman’s voice answers. Courtney.
“Hello? Hello, who is this?”
I forgot to give Ollie my new phone number. I’m not in his contacts, and she has no idea who’s on the other end of the line.
I hang up, breathing hard. After a moment, I dial another number. This time, Jamie’s voice mail answers.
“Never mind,” I say, forcing a cheer into my voice that I don’t feel. “I’m going shopping and thought you might want to meet up. But no big.”
I hang up thinking that shopping sounds like a damn fine idea. Retail therapy won’t cure the world’s ills, but it works pretty well to take your mind off them. On that point, at least, I agree with my mother.
I take a deep breath, then another. I’m calmer now, ready to go. Ready to crank the radio up on a classic country station and let George Strait sing about how his problems are so much worse than mine.
I glance out my window, but don’t see the keys. With a sigh, I push open my door and get out of the car, adjusting my skirt as I do. I’d thrown them hard, so they’re probably yards away near the dark green Mercedes or the massive Cadillac SUV. The only flashlight I have is the app on my iPhone, and I hope it’ll be enough.
My heels click on the asphalt as I cross the garage to the Mercedes. The area with the Mercedes and the Cadillac isn’t as dark as the corner with my car, but it’s still dim, and I frown as I contort my body and shine the light, trying to look under the two cars without getting down on my knees and putting huge runs in my stockings.
It takes a while, but after circling the cars twice, I finally see the keys hidden in a shadow behind the Mercedes’ back tire.
I snatch them up, then freeze when I see movement in my peripheral vision. There, near the stairwell by my car, I see the shadow of a man.
“Hello?”
The shadow doesn’t move, and I shiver, unnerved by the sensation that he is watching me.
“Hey,” I call. “Who’s there?” I stand, debating whether I should move forward—toward the shadow and the car—or whether I should start walking back toward Stark Tower and get a security guard to escort me.
I hold up my phone. “I’m calling security. You might want to take a hike.”
At first, the man doesn’t move. Then the shadow moves backward and is absorbed by the deeper darkness. A moment later, I hear a metallic creak, followed by the heavy thunk of the stairwell door slamming shut.
I shiver and hurry to my car. Right then, all I want is to get out of there.
By the time I arrive at the Beverly Center in West Hollywood, I’ve had my fill of George Strait and have twirled the dial back to the classic rock station. I’m jamming to Journey as I pull into a space right near the brightly lit escalator that leads into the fashionable mall.
Jamie hasn’t called me back, and to be honest, I’m grateful. I’m feeling centered again, the Hyde to my Jekyll buried deep once more, and the thought of rehashing the whole day with Jamie just seems overwhelming. I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to push those buttons or tug on those triggers.
I step inside and stand erect until the doors shut tight. Then I melt against the glass panel and let the tears flow. I have fifty-seven floors to get them out of my system. No, sixty, because my car’s on the third parking level.
When the car eases to a stop, I hastily wipe my face and stand up straight, sliding my mask back into place as I fluff my hair and flash a quick smile at the mirror. Perfect.
But my act isn’t necessary. There’s no one waiting when the doors open. Still, I keep the mask on and the act up as I make the long walk across the Stark Tower side of the parking structure to the area beneath the bank building wherein C-Squared is housed. My car is on the far side, and I’m walking fast now, because I can feel the cracks all over me. I’m going to shatter soon, I know it, and I need to be in my car when I do.
It’s right there, parked opposite the stairwell. The whole corner is dark and despite being open, it makes me twitchy. I reported it to the property manager my first day, but so far they’ve yet to put in a new bulb. Once again, I remind myself to ask Carl for another assigned space, because this corner is too damned creepy.
I hurry to the car and shove the key in the lock—because my Honda’s almost fifteen years old, and I don’t have a keychain remote. I yank the door open, then slide inside, letting the familiar sounds and smells surround me. I tug on the heavy door and the instant it slams shut, I lose it. Tears stream down my face, and I alternately clutch and pound on the steering wheel. Hitting and slamming and pummeling until the heel of my hand is red and raw and sore. I’m shouting, repeating a chorus of “no, no, no,” but I don’t even realize it until my voice fades, raw and raspy.
Finally my tears are spent, but my body doesn’t seem to realize it. I convulse, hiccuping painfully as I try to breathe in and out and gather some control.
It takes a while, but I finally quit shaking. My hand is unsteady as I try to insert the key into the ignition. I can’t manage. Metal scrapes against metal. I drop the key ring. Fumbling, I bend down to pick it up again, only to whack my forehead on the wheel. I clutch the keys tight and curse, and pound my fist against the wheel one more time.
The tears are welling again, and I breathe deep. It’s too much, too fast. The move, the job, Damien.
I want to crawl out of my own skin. I want to escape. I want—
I grab a handful of my skirt and thrust it up so that the material is gathered at my hips, exposing a triangle of panties and my bare thighs above the stockings.
Don’t.
Just a little. Just this once.
Don’t.
But I do. I spread my legs and press the key into the soft flesh of my inner thigh. Once upon a time, I kept a knife on my key ring. I wish I still had it. No. No, I don’t.
The key’s teeth bite into my skin, but it’s nothing. Mosquito bites. I need more if I’m going to keep the storm at bay—and it’s that realization of my need that hits me like a slap in the face.
Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, what the fuck am I doing?
Before I can talk myself out of it, I shove open the door and toss the keys out into the dim parking garage. I hear them skitter across the asphalt. I don’t see where they land.
I sit there breathing deeply, telling myself that’s not who I am. I haven’t cut for over three years. I fought, and I won.
I’m not that girl anymore.
Except of course, I am. I’ll always be that girl. I can wish all I want, and I can run across the country, but those scars don’t go away, and they won’t stay hidden forever.
I guess I learned that the hard way. That’s why I ran from Damien, isn’t it? And that’s why I’ll keep on running.
A wave of loneliness crashes over me, and I think about what Ollie said. About how nothing would change. About how I could call him anytime I needed him.
I need him now.
I reach into my purse and pull out my phone. I have Ollie on speed dial and I punch in the number. It rings. Once. Twice. On the third ring, a woman’s voice answers. Courtney.
“Hello? Hello, who is this?”
I forgot to give Ollie my new phone number. I’m not in his contacts, and she has no idea who’s on the other end of the line.
I hang up, breathing hard. After a moment, I dial another number. This time, Jamie’s voice mail answers.
“Never mind,” I say, forcing a cheer into my voice that I don’t feel. “I’m going shopping and thought you might want to meet up. But no big.”
I hang up thinking that shopping sounds like a damn fine idea. Retail therapy won’t cure the world’s ills, but it works pretty well to take your mind off them. On that point, at least, I agree with my mother.
I take a deep breath, then another. I’m calmer now, ready to go. Ready to crank the radio up on a classic country station and let George Strait sing about how his problems are so much worse than mine.
I glance out my window, but don’t see the keys. With a sigh, I push open my door and get out of the car, adjusting my skirt as I do. I’d thrown them hard, so they’re probably yards away near the dark green Mercedes or the massive Cadillac SUV. The only flashlight I have is the app on my iPhone, and I hope it’ll be enough.
My heels click on the asphalt as I cross the garage to the Mercedes. The area with the Mercedes and the Cadillac isn’t as dark as the corner with my car, but it’s still dim, and I frown as I contort my body and shine the light, trying to look under the two cars without getting down on my knees and putting huge runs in my stockings.
It takes a while, but after circling the cars twice, I finally see the keys hidden in a shadow behind the Mercedes’ back tire.
I snatch them up, then freeze when I see movement in my peripheral vision. There, near the stairwell by my car, I see the shadow of a man.
“Hello?”
The shadow doesn’t move, and I shiver, unnerved by the sensation that he is watching me.
“Hey,” I call. “Who’s there?” I stand, debating whether I should move forward—toward the shadow and the car—or whether I should start walking back toward Stark Tower and get a security guard to escort me.
I hold up my phone. “I’m calling security. You might want to take a hike.”
At first, the man doesn’t move. Then the shadow moves backward and is absorbed by the deeper darkness. A moment later, I hear a metallic creak, followed by the heavy thunk of the stairwell door slamming shut.
I shiver and hurry to my car. Right then, all I want is to get out of there.
By the time I arrive at the Beverly Center in West Hollywood, I’ve had my fill of George Strait and have twirled the dial back to the classic rock station. I’m jamming to Journey as I pull into a space right near the brightly lit escalator that leads into the fashionable mall.
Jamie hasn’t called me back, and to be honest, I’m grateful. I’m feeling centered again, the Hyde to my Jekyll buried deep once more, and the thought of rehashing the whole day with Jamie just seems overwhelming. I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to push those buttons or tug on those triggers.
