You’ll never amount to anything, Theo.
She didn’t want you then, why would she want you now?
You’re a shit lawyer, give it up. No one likes you and your childish ways.
You’re pathetic.
No one loves you. They just tolerate you.
On and on and on it goes, round and round on an endless loop. Mike says I have to talk about the trauma, that it’ll help. He explains it as memories being shoved into the closet—they haven’t been processed, so we have to take each one out individually and work through it, scene by scene, smell by smell. I did it once, and it nearly ripped me in two. I’ve been too scared to do another one after that.
But that’s the problem with trauma—if it doesn’t get dealt with, you live your whole life in a state of fight or flight. The threat levels are high, and you’re suspicious of everyone and their motives. You can’t really live your life to the fullest. Obviously, I’m trying—I talk the loudest, shout the loudest, and laugh the loudest. But deep down? I’m just a scared little boy who wants to be loved by the people who I’m closest to.
“Theo,” Aimee calls when I step through the doors. “There’s a package for you in your office. I put it on your desk.”
I smile. “Thanks, boo. What would I do without you?”
“I really hope you never have to find out.” She grins, then turns away to answer the phone.
Strolling to my office, I give the usual greetings, faking that ‘I’m Theo Moore and there’s nothing wrong with me’ façade. A sigh of relief escapes the minute I’m in the safety of my office, knowing I can let myself relax for five minutes before someone comes rushing in needing something.
I got lucky with my office—it's one of the larger ones with enough room for my mini golf setup in one corner, my prize Transformer figurines in another, and a sofa. One I’m not afraid to admit I’ve slepton, on more than one occasion, because the thought of going home to my empty penthouse was enough to send me into a panic attack.
The package Aimee left sits on my desk. It’s nothing noteworthy, just a plain black box. No note. No business logo. I’m not worried though. I receive stuff from clients all the time. Free shit they get from endorsements they don’t want or need. If it’s any good, I keep it. If not, I throw it out. I’m a minimalistic guy and hate clutter. My brain can’t cope.
I have an important meeting with a prospective client in about ten minutes, so that gives me just enough time to open the package, grab a coffee, and get to the conference room. I didn’t bother inviting Blake, being around her for even more than a second is too much.
Taking off my suit jacket, I hang it on the back of my chair and roll my sleeves up, my tattoos proudly on display. Much like James, I’m covered in them, but mine are all over—chest, back, arms, legs. The only places they aren’t are my hands and neck; I left that to lover boy.
There’s something satisfying about the needle of a tattoo gun gliding across your skin. It wasn’t until after the fateful night that I stopped self-harming in the usual way and started using tattoos and piercings as my outlet. Much healthier if you ask me.
Opening the box without a thought for what might be in it, I’m taken aback when I lift the lid and white powder flies out, hitting me everywhere. I cough and sneeze, spluttering and spitting when the stuff lands in my mouth.
I look down at my once black suit that’s now covered in white shit and glitter. I swipe a hand down my face and am met with the same stuff on the palm of my hand.
“What the fuck?” I roar, rubbing a hand down my suit but only making it worse.
A giggle hits my ears, and I snap my head toward the sound.
Blake.
She stands in the doorway, a grin on her face and her eyes alight.
“This was you?” I ask, my tone cold.
Other colleagues start walking by the window, laughing and pointing as they look in on the mess that is now me and my desk.
I grab for the tissues sitting on my desk, angrily pulling them out. I throw the box back down on the table and begin rubbing frantically at my now ruined suit.
“Moi? I would never,” she says innocently, but I know she’s full of shit. “You seem to have a bit of… uh, something on your face, big guy. I hear glitter’s a bitch to get off.” She tries to smother her smile behind her hand, but she’s failing.
“Do you know how much this suit cost?” I seethe, still rubbing. The tiny flecks of glitter taunt me in their refusal to get the fuck off. The white powder turns into a more muted gray, and I’m not sure if I’ve just made it worse or not.
She laughs. “Oh, poor Theo, does a little bit of glitter feel emasculating?”
“Emasculating?” I scoff. “Please. I’m confident in my male prowess, and I’m not afraid to dabble, either. I’m fucking pissed you ruined a $6,000 Saville Row tailor-made suit I had shipped over from England.” And that’s the fucking truth; they make the best suits. “This is going to cost a fucking fortune to get cleaned—” I freeze, pulling at a section on my shirt. “I’ve scrubbed so hard I’ve ruined the stitches,” I bellow, close to tears because I love this suit.
“Oops?”
