“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 foundanother 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.
