I dismantled it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Blue
My organs feel like they forgot how gravity works. A low, restless humming vibrates under my ribs, refusing to settle, working against the claw tightening its grip on my stomach. I have to swallow twice to get saliva to cooperate so I don't choke.
Shirley's desk sits empty, and it makes me unravel further. I pause, placing my hand on the door trim, my stomach tightening and releasing in short, useless waves, as if it's bracing for impact that never comes.
I need my next session on his calendar.
He's going to try to transfer me to another therapist.
Don't look back at him.
I straighten my spine, push the door open, and carefully shut it, like I'm not unraveling from the inside out. The lie almost convinces me until I turn the corner and my breath stutters.
The hallway feels longer than it did when I walked in. The lights hum too loudly. The carpet pattern repeats itself in a way that makes my skin itch, like I'm walking in place instead of forward. I focus on my steps, the click of my heels, and the pressure of my purse strap digging into my shoulder.
Do not cry.
Not here.
Not because of him.
The elevator doors open, and I step inside alone. The mirror catches me from every angle, highlighting my too-pale skin.
No wonder why he doesn't want to admit he loves me.
The doors slide shut. I exhale so hard, my lungs trickle with pain.
Our encounter replays on fast-forward. The taste of his cum lingers on my tongue, growing more potent with the memory of being under his desk. Then his voice hits my ears. "I chose wrong."
He didn't.
What if he meant it?
Sweat pops out on my skin. I straighten my jacket, as if that might straighten the rest of me, and wait for the elevator to stop. When it does, I step out into the lobby and head straight for the exit, push through the glass doors, and the outside world crashes into me all at once.
Sunlight. Traffic. Laughter.
Everything keeps going. It shouldn't. It should come to a screeching halt, the way Red's disdain for me just raised its ugly head.
I stop outside the building, my heels sinking slightly into the concrete, and force myself to breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth.
It's the way Red would tell me to do it, and the thought makes my jaw tighten.
I don't need him to tell me how to breathe.
I need him consumed with nothing but me.
My phone buzzes in my hand, and my pulse spikes. For half a second, I'm sure it's him, ready to deliver a perfectly crafted professional message meant to tie things up neatly.
My fingers twitch, and I glance at my screen, my heart sinking further. I blink hard, the word Mom blurring.
I let it ring three times and almost let it go to voicemail just to prove I can and hold onto the illusion that I'm choosing this moment instead of being dragged through it.
At the last second, I answer, barely getting out, "Hi."
