His voice is thin and reedy. He’s panicked himself.
“She collapsed and the ambulance brought her in. They’re running some tests but...if you can, maybe you should come here. Just...” His voice catches. The sound of an intercom breaks through the silence. He must be calling from the hospital. “Just in case,” he says.
The chair slowly rolls back to me and when it hits the backs of my knees I collapse. I let the fear beat at my heart before remembering to breathe.
“Okay. I’ll have a flight booked by the end of the night. I’ll be there soon, okay? Do you need me to call the boys?”
“No... Maybe... You just get here as soon as you can.”
He disconnects the call but I do nothing. The fear paralyzing me. Beating at the walls that cooler heads tried to put up. I want to hug my mom. I want to be by her side. But I also want Wesley. I want to hear his voice telling me everything is going to be okay and I want him to hold me for a few precious moments before I leave.
I call him but it goes to voicemail. I hang up and send a text instead. My hands shake so hard I need to spell the words three times before I get them right.
I can’t come. Call me. It’s an emergency.
I can’t bring myself to type the rest. Putting it in print makes it too real. It can’t be real yet.
My mind feels like a thousand different balls of yarn, all with their ends tangled. I don’t just need his support. I need his help. I can’t do this—booking a flight, calling my brothers, dealing with the week ahead—but he still doesn’t respond.
“Breathe,” I whisper. “Everything will be okay.” Rolling my shoulders back, I start with work first since it calms me most, going through my schedule for the next week, sending emails to reschedule meetings and push back presentations.
“Corrine,” a voice says from the doorway and I jump, almost knocking over my hours-cold coffee.
“Richard.” His name sounds more like a curse than a greeting. “I’m sorry but I can’t chat right now, I have to—”
“No.” He walks in, shutting the door behind him. “You need to make time for this.”
Pulling my glasses off and rubbing away the stress on the bridge of my nose, I say, “Okay, Richard.” The air in this room smells stale, close, unmoving. He just brings this claustrophobia with him wherever he goes. “What do you need?”
“What I need is for you to listen to me. I’m tired of you dicking me around.”
“I... I...what?”
My brain snags on the utter absurdity of a man named Richard turningdickinto a verb and a laugh bubbles out. But he seems too caught up in this moment to care. He approaches my desk like he wants to hurt it, leaning against the glasstop so he can get as close to me as possible.
“I have been patient, Corrine. I have offered you every opportunity. You know that I want you. You’ve always known.”
The laughter dies in my throat. “This...this is wildly inappropriate.”
A sense of surreality washes over me. The office tunnels, the air whooshes from my chest. I know I’m not in any physical danger. At least, I think? My eyes dart to the door over and over again. My legs twitch with the need to get out. There is nothing I want more than to get the hell away from this man.
“You want to talk about appropriate?” His face turns a deep shade of red. “Your little tease outfits aren’t very appropriate for work, Corrine.”
He gestures toward me. “Tight skirts and that low-cut dress you wore the other day,” he scoffs.
I close my eyes. If I have to be in this man’s presence for another minute I might scratch him.
“What are you trying to say? The clothes I wear aren’t any different from the clothes every other woman at this office wears.”
My phone vibrates in my hand and I see a text from my stepfather before Richard reaches out to grab it. “Pay attention tome.”
The phone feels like my only link to anything outside this office right now, so I grip it tighter, holding it behind my back in a game of grown-up keep-away.
“No,youpay attention, Richard.”
The look on his face should probably scare me. But I’m done being scared and intimidated by this man and the power he thinks he has over me. Whatever was left of our relationship, my respect for him, has burned up with his rage.
“I’m not interested in you, Richard. I never have been and I never will be. I find your come-ons offensive and uncomfortable, and if you don’t leave me alone I will be reporting you to HR.”
