Chapter Eight
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I’m too pissed to enjoy a presentation covered in candy hearts.
Liam
Brian is the last person I’d expect to be afraid of me; however, I think it’s because he’s one of the few people who knows the severe exterior I’ve been stuck with my entire life isn’t an accurate reflection of my internal emotions.
This morning, the day after the conversation I had with Amber last night, my coarse presentation is as close to my real feelings as it has ever been.
He must pick up on whatever slight change in the air indicates that I am angry . Actually angry . Not just existing with a face that rests in severity.
Beneath the surface, I don’t know how many emotions are vying for attention in my bloodstream. The only ones I can name are hurt and anger . Since it’s a work day, and I can’t very well curl up in the corner and cry in my suit, I’m resting on my anger completely.
What difference does it make for most people anyway, right? Everyone always thinks I’m angry.
And blunt.
And manipulative
And abusive .
There’s always something wrong with me according to other people, so I gave up on listening to their confusing, backwards assessments. I live by my own rules, according to my own moral code. The only person whose opinion of that I’ve ever cared about has been Amber.
She built my moral code. It’s because of her I learned the rules. She taught me that the people in this unforgiving world expect surplus consideration. They’re not like me. They are constantly aware of their feelings, and those feelings are flighty and shallow. One little ripple feels like a wave in their fishbowls.
I live painfully aware of that.
But I refuse to pander to it.
Why, when I mean no harm, do I have to be the one giving every consideration to a mass of people who judge me constantly, then conclude the worst?
It makes no sense.
What makes less sense is that Amber wasn’t one of those judgmental people.
She wasn’t.
She never judged anyone. She saw everything so clearly. She could explain, thoroughly, why someone reacted the way they had in ways even I understood. It may not always have made sense, but she could scientifically break down how emotions affected other people and why those emotions controlled them.
Amber has always been like air in my lungs. I have believed in her and trusted her completely.
I knew I annoyed her. I knew she didn’t like me. I know I’m messed up, broken beyond repair. I know I enjoy playing with her, pushing her buttons, watching her squirm.
But I also know she was patient with me. She accepted me for who I was, when no one else did. I thought she knew we were playing .
If her memory of me has perverted to such an extent that I am nothing more than a monster—if she recalls nothing more than the times I accidentally went too far —how often did I cross a line she never pointed out? She interpreted others’ behaviors for me, but I don’t remember a time she ever stopped me when it came to herself.
I thought the fact that she bothered tolerating me meant something. I thought she could tell that we were both strange, both outliers. I thought she knew how much I have always treasured her.
Learning that the best moment in my life is one where she hated me …
It makes me so mad .
I don’t know what to do with the anger.
So, I’m sitting here, glaring at Brian while he shows me something important to him. Instead of supporting him in a way he deserves, I’m making Brian , of all people, cautious.
“S-so.” He changes the slide on his highly-detailed presentation depicting a thirty-day team-building exercise leading up to, and themed around, Valentine’s Day. For the past ten minutes, he’s been going through daily events, but I’m so upset, I can barely appreciate how cute all of them are. “On day thirty-one of this month, I’ve planned a Secret Cupid.” He changes the slide. “On the first of February—”
“Stop,” I say, and the tense smile Brian put in place falls, turning into a pitiful and adorable pout, which I also can’t appreciate. “Secret Cupid,” I echo. “What’s that?”
Hope returns to his eyes, a sliver at a time. “Oh! It’s like a Secret Santa. Everyone draws a name and gets a gift for whoever they drew. No one knows until the gift exchange who got what, and everyone takes turns guessing who got their gift until the mystery unravels.”
“So it’s a Secret Santa.”
“Yes, but no. It’s—” He lifts his hands, splaying them. “—Valentine themed.”
“So the gifts will be Valentine themed?”
Brian clears his throat. “Um, well, I hadn’t thought about making that a requirement.”
Leaning forward, I thread my fingers together. “Why wouldn’t that be a requirement? Is this or is this not a Valentine event? You can’t just steal Secret Santa and change the name. That’s lazy.”
Brian’s lips press together, and his lungs fill before he deflates, sagging. “You’re so right. I’ve been ignorant. I thought, perhaps for a moment, that I was going too far , but you’re right. You’re completely right. I can go so much farther .”
I nod, once, firmly. “Stuffed animals. A Secret Cupid is a Secret Santa, but only stuffed animals are allowed as gifts.”
Hope ignites, fully, going off like a bomb on Brian’s face. Eager anticipation takes hold, overflows, erupts . “Does that mean…you approve? Operation Countdown to Valentine is a go? I can start petitioning interest?”
“ Petitioning? ” Slowly, I rise, planting my hands on my desk. “Brian, we’re not a fan club begging for another season of our favorite show. We’re the company in charge of dictating what the masses watch. Participation is mandatory .”
His eyes widen. “Mandatory?”
“I’ll contact a temp agency, outsource menial tasks so everyone can take part.” Returning to my seat, I cross my arms. “Be ready to present this to all heads of departments in a meeting tomorrow. I’ll send the announcement…and have it catered.”
Brian, now teary and no longer tense, sniffs. “ Catered. You’re the best, Mr. Warrick. This is going to improve morale by two hundred percent.”
The best . To that statement, hurt rears, and my whole body constricts around it, latching onto my anger in a desperation to save face. I growl, “Make sure you put that statistic on a slide for tomorrow’s meeting.”
He salutes. “You got it!”
Once he leaves me alone in my large, dark, entirely uncute office, I sag.
Hurt rears again.
I shove anger at it.
The thousand other delicate, complex feelings rumble in my gut, until I’m physically unwell.
As pressure builds in my chest, with nowhere to go, I realize.
I’m not exactly hurt or angry, and all the mysterious sensations aren’t hundreds of unnamed beasts at all.
It’s all one, big emotion that I’ve never felt before.
I…am heartbroken.
The woman I adore hardly wants to tolerate me anymore, and all my precious moments with her…were painful for her to experience.
I don’t know how to fix this. If Amber can’t stand me , it’s not like I can become someone else. I’m stuck. Like this.
Forever .