Tears burn behind my eyes, hot and sudden. I blink hard but they spill anyway, sliding down my cheeks while I sit therefrozen, staring at the empty doorway like he might come back any second.
I don’t think I breathe the whole time. Lungs locked tight. Chest burning. Only when I hear a truck engine turn over outside, growl to life, and then fade down the road do I finally suck in a ragged breath. It sounds like a sob.
My hands are still shaking so bad when I grab the phone. The screen blurs through the tears. I swipe twice before it unlocks.
Me: I need you.
I stare at the sent message like if I glare hard enough he’ll read it. Nothing. The little delivered checkmark mocks me. No dots. No typing bubble. Just silence.
I don’t want to text anyone else. Not Mom or Dad, not even Lena. They’d freak out, start asking questions, want to come over or call the cops or wrap me in bubble wrap. I can’t handle that right now. I just need one person who gets it without turning it into a whole thing.
The office feels too quiet now. The crew’s noise is still out there, but it’s distant, like it’s happening in another life. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to squeeze the trembling out.
Then the questions start creeping in, slow at first, then faster. How the hell did Brian know I was here? Who told him I’m working for Dad?
I barely post anything online anymore. After I left him, I locked everything down. Private accounts, no location tags, no check-ins. So how did he walk right into this office like he had directions?
Did he get my new number somehow? I changed it two years ago. Only family and a handful of friends have it. Does he know where I live now? The route I drive to work? Has he been watching? Waiting?
The sweat on my neck turns cold. I glance at the open door again, half expecting him to stroll back in with that same smirk. My fingers twitch toward the .38 drawer, but I don’t open it. Not yet.
I pick up the phone one more time, but there’s still nothing from Lucky. Fuck this. I type again, thumb hovering, then delete it. No point double-texting like some desperate ex. Instead I just stare at his name in the chat, heart thudding harder with every unanswered second.
He’s probably working. He doesn’t always have his phone on him when he’s on a job site. I know that. I repeat it in my head like it’ll make the wait hurt less. But the quiet stretches. Seconds turn into a full minute. Then two. Then thirty. I pace the office like a caged animal, back and forth behind the desk, arms wrapped tight around my middle. Every creak of the building makes me freeze. Every distant hammer sound makes me flinch. I can’t stay here. Not with the door unlocked and him knowing exactly where to find me.
I grab my keys, shove my phone in my pocket, and head out front. The crew’s still banging away on the addition. I spot Dad’s truck pulling back in from the supply run. He climbs out, already scanning the lot like he’s looking for something off. Before he can call my name, I duck back inside for a second, pull out my phone, and fire off a quick text.
Me: Hey Dad, not feeling great. My stomach's messed up. Heading home early to lie down. I’ll text when I get there.
I hit send, pocket the phone, and slip out to my car without looking back. I can feel his eyes on me as I cross the lot, but I don’t stop. Don’t wave. Don’t give him a chance to walk over and ask questions.
The drive home is a blur. I check my mirrors every five seconds, half expecting Brian’s truck to pop up behind me. When I pull into my driveway, I sit there for a full minute with the engine running, scanning the windows, the porch, the side yard. Nothing moves.
Inside, I lock the front door. Deadbolt. Chain. Then the back door. Kitchen window. Bedroom window. Every single one. Psycho and Menace are already waiting, tails flicking, meowing like they know something’s fucked up. I scoop them both up and carry them to the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind us and twisting the lock.
I drop onto the bed. The cats curl against my sides, purring hard, but it doesn’t touch the shaking. My teeth chatter. My hands won’t stop trembling. Sweat soaks the back of my shirt even though I’m freezing.
Then my phone buzzes.
Dad: You okay? You looked rough when you left. Call me if it gets worse.
I stare at the message. Thumb hovers over the call button. I can’t. Not yet. He’ll hear the shake in my voice and drive straight over. I type back instead.
Me: Just got home. Locked up. Gonna try to sleep it off. I’ll call if I need anything. Love you.
I hit send and turn the phone face-down on the nightstand. It buzzes again almost immediately. Probably him saying be careful or offering soup or something dad-like. I ignore it.
I’m shaking so bad I can barely stand. My chest feels tight, like someone’s sitting on it. Breathing comes in short, useless gasps. This is a panic attack. I know the signs. I’ve been here before.
I stumble into the bathroom, yank open the medicine cabinet. The Valium bottle is right where I left it, dusty from over a year of not needing it. I shake out one pill, then another just to be sure, dry-swallow them, and chase with tap water that tastes like metal.
Back in the bedroom, I grab the thickest blanket off the chair and crawl into the closet. Door shut. Light off. Dark. Close. Safe-ish.
I pull my knees to my chest, blanket wrapped tight around me like armor. Psycho and Menace squeeze in too, wedging against my legs, warm little weights that keep me from floating away completely.
I should call someone. Anyone. Lena. My mom.The crisis line. But my phone’s on the bed and moving feels impossible. My brain keeps looping the same shit on repeat. He knows where I work. He could know where I live. He said I’d come looking for him, but what if he can’t wait and comes looking for me? What if he’s already on his way here?
I press my forehead to my knees and whisper into the dark, “He’s gone. He’s gone. He’s not coming back.”
