I sit there, trembling, as tears burn behind my eyes. Is this what my life has become? Jumping at shadows, unable to even put away a teapot without falling apart?
“Come on, Cora,” I mutter. “You’ve faced scarier things than a cabinet. Remember that blind date with the guy who considered taxidermy a great first date activity? And now you’re talking to yourself. Great.”
And Arlo... I push the thought away, not ready to confront the complicated emotions surrounding that night. But his face flashes in my mind—the look of terror in his eyes when the gun appeared, the sound of his footsteps fading as he...
I shake my head, trying to dislodge the memory. Not now. I can’t deal with that now.
I place the teapot in the cabinet. A dull ache pulses behind my eyes, a reminder of the ordeal I’ve been through. I massage my temples, willing the headache to subside.
I’ve dealt with difficult clients, navigated high-pressure auctions andeven faced down a few overzealous collectors who thought money could buy anything—or anyone. But I’ve never had a gun to my head before. I’ve never feared for my life.
I head to the kitchen for some painkillers, and my phonebuzzes with an incoming call. It’s Jill, checking up on me for the hundredth time today.
I answer with a small smile. “Hey, Jill. Let me guess, you’re calling to make sure I haven’t lost it in the last hour?”
“Cora!” Jill’s voice is a mix of relief and exasperation. “How are you? Do you need anything? I can be there in twenty minutes with soup or wine or both.”
I chuckle, grateful for the distraction. “I’m fine, Jill. No need for a soup and wine IV just yet.”
“Of course,” Jill says, her voice softening. “Whenever you’re ready. We’re all here for you, you know that, right? Me, Bailey, Riley—we’re just a phone call away.”
“I know,” I say, a lump forming in my throat. The thought of my friends, their unwavering support, brings a fresh wave of emotion. “Thanks, Jill. I mean it.”
We chat for a few more minutes, Jill filling me in on the mundane details of her day. It’s soothing, this glimpse of normal life continuing beyond the walls of my home. By the time we hang up, I feel a little lighter.
The apartment doesn’t seem as oppressive, the shadows not quite as menacing. I’m still not sure how to move forward, but for the first time since the attack, a glimmer of my old self peeks through.
I head to the kitchen, swallowing a couple of painkillers with a glass of water. Arlo will be here soon.
What will I say to him? How can I even process what happened that night? The weight of unasked questions and unspoken fears hangs heavy in the air.
A knock at the door startles me out of my reverie. With a deep breath, I prepare to answer it, my heart pounding in my chest.
It’s time to face reality, whether or not I’m ready for it.
I open the door to find Arlo standing there, his tall, lean frame filling the doorway. He's holding a bouquet in one hand and a paper bag in the other. His dark eyes widen as they take in my appearance, and I suddenly feel self-conscious about my damp hair and baggy sweats.
“Cora,” he breathes. He leans forward, his dark hair falling slightly across his forehead as he moves to kiss me. I stiffen, and he pulls back, hurt flashing across his angular face. “I... I brought you some things,” he says, lifting the items in his hands. His long fingers tighten around the bouquet stem. “Flowers and soup from that place you like.”
“Thanks,” I manage, stepping aside to let him in. The familiar scent of his cologne washes over me, and for a moment, I’m transported back to happier times. Our first date, laughing over coffee. The night he surprised me with tickets to the opera.
But then the memory of that night intrudes, and I have to suppress a shudder. The Arlo in my memories and the Arlo standing before me now seem like two different people. How can I reconcile them?
Arlo moves into the living room, setting the flowers and soup on the coffee table. He turns to face me, his expression a mixture of concern and guilt. “How are you feeling? Your head...?”
I touch the fading bruise on my forehead. “It’s fine. Just a bit of a headache.”
He nods, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The silence stretches between us, thick with unspoken words and unanswered questions. He’s struggling to find the right thing to say, to bridge the chasm that’s opened up between us.
“Cora, I—” he starts, just as I say, “Arlo, we need?—”
We both stop, an awkward chuckle escaping me. “You gofirst,” I offer, sinking onto the couch. The leather creaks under my weight, the sound loud in the tense silence.
Arlo sits beside me. “I wanted to say how sorry I am. About everything. I’ve been going out of my mind with worry.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Part of me wants to fall into his arms, to let him comfort me and pretend that everything is okay. To go back to the way things were before, when I thought I knew who we were and what we meant to each other. But I can’t shake the image of his back disappearing into the darkness, leaving me alone with a gun to my head.
I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what comes next. “Sorry is not enough.”
