Her shoulders are set in that particular way that means she’s worried but won’t show it. The same posture from when we were seventeen and I got caught with vodka in my locker.
Am I being dramatic?
I don’t think so.
These thoughts cycle on repeat as I walk down the hall toward the elevator. Then up a floor to Dom’s office.
Box breathing. I can do that.
In for four.
Hold for four.
Out for four.
Hold for four.
Except I keep forgetting to actually breathe.
Step one foot in front of the other. One. Two. One. Two.
His hallway has never felt this long.
I can do this. I’ve done harder things. I survived the stairwell. I survived the VIP lounge. I can survive whatever this is.
Except I know what this is.
He’s here. In this building. Maybe twenty feet away from me right now.
The ring around my neck suddenly feels like a noose.
Dom’s door is open.
The fur coat hits me first.
Draped across the arm of the leather loveseat like it belongs there. Like it’s been there a hundred times before. Cream-colored. Expensive. Unmistakable.
“I was wearing one of my fur coats, you know the ones.”
His voice from the stairwell echoes in my head. That entitled casualness. The way he mentioned the coat like it was a character trait. A signature.
“I’m infamous for the fur coat.”
My feet stop moving. My lungs stop working.
It’s him.
“Dylan.” Dom steps into the hallway, frowning at me. “You drank too much.”
I can’t answer. Can’t move. The coat is right there. Twenty feet away. Evidence I can’t touch, can’t report, can’t admit into any proceeding that matters. Just like the ring around my neck—proof of a crime with no case file, no docket number, no court that would hear it.
Why does everyone think I’m hungover?
“I did.” I sigh, rubbing my stomach. Playing along because what else can I do?
Does he say go home, Dylan, get some rest?
No.
