6. Chapter 6
The relief is evident in her body. Her huge exhale does nothing to settle my pounding heart. If I thought my anxiety was high before, hearing her say she knows anything about my past sends me nearly to the ground, curled up in a ball in a cold sweat.
“I was going to the bathroom when you and Arlo were talking. The door wasn’t shut all the way, and I stopped to listen. I know, it was so, so wrong, and I’m sorry. But it finally sparked some inspiration for this book I’ve been so blocked about. And I know it’s not a reason to betray you, but that’s my only excuse. I only know what you and Arlo talked about, just about what your past job was and the Tennison Strangler case. Then I booked it back to my table to start planning.” She says it all so fast, it’s hard to keep up with her.
But what I focus on is that she knows my past. She knows I’m a fuck-up who couldn’t catch one of the worst criminals in our history.
And I panic.
“Get out.”
“Oak—”
“Get out!” I yell.
The color drains from her face, and for a split second I feel like the biggest asshole, but I can’t do anything to stop the freight train that is my fear. I need her out of here before I do something I can’t take back.
“I’m so sorry, Oakley,” she whispers before unlocking the front door and quickly departing.
I slump against the chair, feeling the weight of my past hitting me like an anvil.
What does this mean now that Willow knows my deep secret? Do I need to move again? Can I still keep my life in Bluebell Falls without word getting out? She said she didn’t tell anyone, and I believe her because if she had, everyone would be at my door asking questions.
Fuck, I hate this so much. Every fear I’ve held on to for so long is rushing to the surface, and I feel like I’m about to break.
I stumble up the stairs to my apartment, feeling the beginnings of a full-blown panic attack in my lungs. Barely getting the door open, I slam it shut before dropping to my knees, clutching my chest. Everything feels tight, like I can’t breathe, can’t pull in enough air to function. My shirt sticks to my chest from the sweat, and I clumsily try to get it off, struggling with every movement.
I finally rip it off my body, using the momentum to get my jeans off too. Everything feels too constricting, and I need any relief I can get. Once I’m finally in just my boxer briefs, I lie flat on my back on the floor.
Using some of the tools my therapist gave me, I breathe in to the count of ten, and out to the same. I repeat this several times before my chest starts to loosen up enough for me to think clearly.
I haven’t had a panic attack this bad since I decided to quit the Task Force. As much as I thought I was moving past all this shit, Willow’s words prove I’m not even remotely in a better place than I was a year ago. And it fucking sucks to realize.
Before I could actually walk away from the Marshals, they set me up with a therapist to see if we could figure out what was going on. I will say, it helped, and I thought that I had made a clear decision—the right decision.
And now that my peace has been interrupted, I feel like I’m right back to the day I decided I needed out.
A year ago, I was standing at a crime scene. This wasn’t your average crime scene; it was apparent when we showed up that it was Alfred Tennison’s work. The poor man sitting in the ambulance was proof enough. He had shallow cuts on every appendage—not enough to do real damage, but enough to make a person miserable. You could see the rope burn around his neck from the repeated strangling cutting his air off until he almost passed out. But the worst of it was the branding. Alfred Tennison never killed anyone, but he took every single victim to the brink and brought them back, time and time again. And when he was finally done with them, he would brand them with his calling card—a partial quote from Alfred Lord Tennyson: ‘Tis better to have loved and lost. You can’t unsee any of it, and I can only imagine what it would be like to live with the symbol of your every nightmare on your body for the rest of your life.
The thought still sends a shiver down my spine.
I shakily stand up, trying to get my bearings before heading to the shower. I need to rinse off the reminder of a past life. Stripping off my boxer briefs, I walk under the freezing spray. It feels like a cleanse of sorts, clearing my head of the past and bringing it back to the present.
Willow, fuck.
I wonder what she thinks of me, knowing how I failed so many people. Knowing I couldn’t catch him, knowing I failed at the most basic level of what I was supposed to be good at.
And then I yelled at her.
I lean against the tile in the shower and close my eyes. I yelled at Willow. How fucking insecure do I have to be to take it out on her? Deep down, I know I took it out on her because I was scared. I want her to see me in this perfect light, and that’s gone now.
But it’s been gone for almost two weeks, and she doesn’t look at you any differently.
God, I wish I could believe that.
Self-loathing is a weird thing. Reality can be right in front of you, but you can’t see a damn thing, too lost in the negative with no way out.
I turn the shower off—angry with myself—climb out of the shower, and dry off before collapsing on my bed.
This is not how I pictured the day going. I know I should get my ass up, and sweat the doubt and fear in my head away, but I can’t seem to get myself to move.
All I can see now is Willow’s face when I yelled at her.
She’s the last person I’d ever want to hurt, and yet I did so with hardly any effort.
This is probably a sign I need to call my therapist and start back up with him. I’m clearly not as well-adjusted as I thought I was.
This brings my thoughts to what Willow asked of me. I’ve been so caught up in my insecurities that I haven’t actually thought about it.
She said that she got a burst of inspiration after she eavesdropped. That could be a good thing, right?
Then I remember the reason this whole conversation started was her thinking I could help her with her book.
Could I help her? I know she would probably want to pick my brain about all the cases I worked on, not just the Tennison Strangler. If I could steer her away from that case, I think that maybe I could do it. I’d do a lot if it meant helping Willow.
Damnit, am I actually considering this?
My eyes shift around the bare walls of my bedroom. If I have a chance to help, shouldn’t I do that? It’s always been in my nature to help when needed, and somehow I’ve lost that. Tennison took it away, along with my faith in humanity.
But maybe this is my chance to change. Helping Willow could help me move past some of my hang-ups. And if anyone can make me feel comfortable talking about shit I’d rather keep buried, it’d be her.
My mind runs through all the possibilities, but the only thing I keep coming back to is the fact that helping Willow would be worth it.
Decision made, I hoist my weary body up from my bed, completely unaware of what time it is.
All I know is that I need to talk to her. I need to make sure she’s okay and apologize for my rash behavior, and explain a little of why I reacted that way.
I’ll bring her dinner.
The idea sticks and I get dressed quickly, throwing on an old flannel and jeans before heading downstairs to Grind Time’s kitchen to make her favorite panini. I load it into a bag with some chips and extra pickles before heading out.
I take a brief look at my watch and realize my mental breakdown lasted for hours, and it’s nearing ten o’clock at night. But I know I need to do this now, or I’ll never agree to help her. I’ll overthink more than I already have and cower away in my apartment, avoiding her as much as possible.
And strangely, I don’t want to avoid her. She’s been a constant light for weeks, and I don’t want that to disappear.
It takes me no time at all to reach her house. I only hesitate a moment before knocking on her door.
When she opens up the door, an oversized sweatshirt hangs off her shoulders and lounge shorts barely cover her ass.
“Oakley?”
“James. My first name is James, and I’d like to apologize and talk. I brought food.” I quickly hold up the paper bag.
Her eyes dart between mine and the bag before she holds the door open and steps to the side to let me inside.
My body sags with relief, and I know this is the right decision. No matter how hard it is for me to work through.