CHAPTER SIX
Brett
College
Every time I look at him out of the corner of my eye, Colson Lutz always looks the same; leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, legs crossed at the ankles, and his head cocked to the side.
Unbothered.
He sits next to his two friends, but he barely speaks to them. Instead, he starts off the spring semester of our senior year in Popular Fiction by looking over the syllabus and then asking me which I liked better: the book, Carrie , or the film version .
I jump at responding to him, because I have opinions about film adaptations.
“They’re almost different stories, aren’t they?” I ponder, “I saw the movie when I was in fifth grade and I loved it. A couple years later I read the book, and I liked that, too, but Carrie from the book is no Sissy Spacek. I mean, pig blood and being impaled with knives is cool, but God forbid they cast a fat girl in the starring role. People would lose their minds.”
Colson leans over the edge of his desk, “You saw Carrie in fifth grade?”
He leans so close that I can smell the notes of mint and citrus in his dark auburn hair, styled in a messy blowout on top of his head. When I look over my shoulder, I’m caught entirely off-guard by his striking aquamarine eyes studying me.
“Yeah,” I try not to stare at him, “when did you see it?”
“I don’t know, in high school maybe. Didn’t it freak you out?”
I tip my daily bottle of Naked Mango Madness protein smoothie into my mouth, “Which part? ”
Colson pauses, clearly running through the scenes in his mind. It’s obvious he doesn’t know where to begin.
Finally, he picks the opening scene, “A bunch of bitchy girls screaming at you in a locker room while you’re bleeding everywhere? Total humiliation?”
I straight up giggle at his assumption. Never mind child abuse, bullying, being doused in pig blood, and murdering your peers by telekinesis—menstrual blood is way worse.
“No,” I reply with an eye roll, “because I didn’t grow up under a rock and I’ve known how periods work since elementary school.”
At that, Colson opens his mouth, hesitates, then closes it right back up again. He gives a nod, realizing how ridiculous he sounds.
At first, I think it’s strange that a forestry major is taking an English elective. But it’s senior year, which means that those who have already satisfied the requirements for their majors often find themselves in a smattering of random elective courses. I can only assume this is the case for Colson. I’m just glad I found one with a smaller class size instead of in an auditorium with 200 other people.
I also can’t stop looking at Colson because, I swear, I’ve seen him somewhere before. It’s his eyes. I can picture them—vividly—in my mind, like at some point he was standing right in front of me. I didn’t know his name until he introduced himself to me in class, but the feeling is so strong that I can’t shake it. It’s like a word that’s on the tip of your tongue or forgetting the name of a song.
It’s a huge campus, and it’s highly probable I have seen him somewhere before—a hallway, a bar, a football game, a party, one of the thousand other places I go on any given day. But it still doesn’t explain why I have a very specific image of his face so close to mine that I can’t see the rest of his body. Eventually, I resign myself to the likelihood that I’ve seen him in one of these places, if only for a split second, and his striking blue eyes are the only thing that registered in my memory.
Every Tuesday and Thursday, Colson walks into the room and sits down at the desk right next to me. At first, he only glances at me and smiles every so often. But, soon, he starts giving me half of his Twix he always gets from the vending machine in the hallway. Then I start giving him a stick of my cinnamon gum. Sometimes, he’ll scrawl a snarky comment in my notebook, and by midterms, we’re carrying on silent conversations in class, whether they’re written in my notebook or making faces at each other during one of Dr. Selter’s pop culture rants.
One day, just for fun, I walk into class and sit on the opposite side of the room. When Colson walks in, I watch him turn right and almost sit down at the desk he usually does. But, this time, he catches himself, hesitates, and then after a quick glance around the room, continues across the tile floor and sits down at the desk next to me.
It takes all I have to not let him see me smile .
Another time, I act like my laptop is dying and I need to move closer to an outlet. He waits until there’s a break midway through class. Then he gets up, grabs his backpack from the foot of his desk, walks across the room, and sits down at the desk next to me without a word. He just acts like he’s been sitting there all along.
One day, with midterms approaching, Colson leans back in his seat and looks over his shoulder at me, “Do you know Cade Wheeler and Anderson Hicks?”
I glance up from my notebook, “I know of them.”
And by know of , I mean their names sound familiar.
“You should come to their house tomorrow. It’s Cade’s 21 st birthday.”
“Where do they live?”
“On Windham—next to the park.”
I chew the end of my pen, mulling it over. At this point, I’m over house parties in the student slums, which is why Barrett and I decided to live off-campus in a nicer apartment and suffer the 15-minute commute to class. However, if Colson is inviting me, that’s a different story.
“OK,” I nod, and continue jotting down my notes, “I’ll see if I’m free.”
He lowers his voice with a smile, “Promise you’ll come.”
I still my hand, caught off-guard by his bold request and, after a moment, shoot him a surprised look, “Promise, huh?”
He swivels in his seat and leans over the edge of his desk, “Come on, Sorensen,” his blue eyes look positively radioactive, “I want to see how much fun you are outside of this place.”
●●●
Emma scrunches up her face and peers at the grey Rubbermaid garbage can filled with muddy liquid, “What’s in it?”
“I don’t know,” I shrug, “but I bet it’ll get you wrecked.”
The house should’ve been condemned long ago, much like every other house on the block with eight to 15 college students living in it at one time. Just as buckeye flags and a permanent folding table for beer pong on each porch are commonplace, so are the peeling paint, dented siding, and decaying shingles sliding off into ancient flowerbeds littered with cigarette butts.
Katie sniffs her red Solo cup and gulps down a mouthful of the murky potion, “Ugh, God. ” She coughs as her face contorts and she grits her teeth.
Emma shoots Katie a dubious look, “What’s it taste like?”
Katie shrugs and swirls the sickly greyish purple garbage juice around in her cup, “Kind of fruity, not bad.” She turns to me, “So, who are you supposed to meet here again?”
As soon as I open my mouth, Barrett shoots me a sideways glance.
“Colson Lutz,” I say flatly, avoiding eye contact with any of them .
Katie arches one eyebrow and looks at me suspiciously, “Colson Lutz? ” The way she says his name makes it sound like I’m mistaken—or that she doesn’t believe me.
“Yeah?”
Katie’s tone flattens and her eyes narrow, “Colson Lutz…”
“Yes,” I repeat, “why do you keep saying his name like that?”
Katie erupts in a cackle, giving me a start. Her laughter catches the breeze and echoes over the lawn and into the trees. Barrett presses her lips together and shakes her head.
“Colson fucking Lutz!” Katie guffaws and staggers backward, nearly spilling her garbage juice.
“ What? ” I hiss, mortified that everyone on the front lawn’s probably heard her scream his name. I grab her arm with a scowl, “Stop saying his name and tell me why it matters!” I hope to God he isn’t standing within earshot.
Katie takes a gulp and waves her hand at me as she swallows her mouthful of bad decisions, “Dude, I had no idea he was the one flirting with you in class. Colson Lutz…” She shakes her head and gazes aimlessly across the lawn. After a few moments, she looks back at me and waggles her eyebrows, “And he has his sights set on you. ”
My eyes dart around the lawn, still cognizant of who might be listening, “Is that bad?”
Katie raises her cup to her lips and rolls her eyes, “Make him wear a condom.”
Emma spews a mouthful of her bottled water across the grass and Barrett finally loses her composure and erupts in laughter. I tip my head back and squeeze my eyes shut. She’s definitely drawing attention to us now. But so what if Colson Lutz wants to fuck me? Maybe I want to fuck him, too. Did anyone ever think of that? It’s not like I’m in love with him or even want to date him.
OK, maybe I want to date him. A little.
“I need a beer,” I swat Barrett’s arm, “now.”
The inside of Anderson and Cade’s house is no better than the outside. Barrett follows me into the living room where people of varying degrees of intoxication are milling about. I scan the room and catch sight of a black plastic garbage can sitting in the corner with a keg inside. I fill one cup, and then another, handing one to Barrett. At least the beer is cold. I turn around, my cheeks still filled with the nondescript lager, and freeze.
Two dingey sofas sit across the room; a forest green one occupied by three girls with a guy perched on one of the arms, and the other a floral sofa that looks like it came out of my grandmother’s living room set from the 80’s. One of the arms is tattered from years of cat clawing and muddled thread cascades down the wood frame, deflated from the stuffing disintegrating long ago .
Colson is sitting on the floral one, his legs splayed out while he talks to some guy standing to the side. He extends his arm across the back of the sofa, behind a girl with long, straight, dark brown hair wearing a lavender cropped t-shirt emblazoned with Theta letters. She’s looking at her phone and periodically moving it in front of him to show him whatever’s on the screen.
Watching him out of the corner of my eye, I don’t think he’s seen me yet even though we can’t be more than 20 feet away from each other. A tall, blonde guy in a grey t-shirt and a Steelers cap walks up behind Barrett and says something over her shoulder. She turns around and recognizes him, greeting him with a hug. While Barrett is occupied, I inconspicuously scan the room.
I should just walk up and say hi to him. But I don’t know, it seems…weird.
We stand there for what seems like forever while I glance back and forth, waiting to see if Colson notices us. Finally, my gaze falls on him and our eyes meet. I cast him a smile of recognition, assuming he’ll wave, stand up, say something, or give any indication of my existence. Instead, he turns his focus back to the guy he’s been talking to.
I keep watching him to see if he’ll eventually end his conversation and come over to us, but he remains on the sofa, next to the girl with the shiny brown hair. Over the next few minutes, she gradually sinks further into his side and leans across his chest to talk to someone else at the end of the sofa. When she leans back onto her cushion, her hand lingers on Colson’s leg and she curls her onyx fingernails over his knee.
He just sits there the entire time, his hand dangling from the back of the couch, brushing against her hair each time she moves back and forth. She leans in close to his face, looking into his eyes while he listens to whatever the hell she’s saying. And when he tilts his head and murmurs a reply into her ear, she lets out a giggle and her hand travels further up his leg.
I feel ill. I feel a heaviness settle in the pit of my stomach and, suddenly, I realize I don’t belong here. I don’t know any of these people and I’m only here to see a guy who can’t even be bothered to acknowledge my existence. I turn away and catch Barrett’s eye.
She glances around and takes a sip of beer, “Is he here?”
I motion to the sofa, “Oh, is he ever.”
Barrett follows my gaze, doing a double-take when she sees Colson, “Who the fuck is that?” she scoffs.
I give a shrug, utterly defeated.
“Whatever,” Barrett mutters, her attitude changing in the blink of an eye, “this place sucks, let’s leave.”
I chug my full cup of beer in less than 10 seconds and toss the empty cup on the table next to the keg. We emerge from the rat’s nest back into the night air and catch sight of Katie, talking to a few women near the driveway.
I stride across the lawn and tap her arm, “We’re leaving,” I grumble.
“ Sorry? ” Katie’s uncharacteristically loud voice indicates she’s got a good buzz going on.
“He’s a dud!” Barrett spits from over my shoulder. “Fuck this place.”
Katie’s jaw drops at the first inkling of a scandal and she immediately starts saying her goodbyes. Barrett gives a wave to Emma, who’s sitting on the front porch with a few guys, and calls to her that we’re leaving.
I totally regret coming here. Did I miss something—some subtle cue that Colson isn’t as interested as I thought he was? It’s a party with free alcohol, it’s not like they’re short on warm bodies to cram into this dump.
Soon, Katie and Emma run up to join us as we start down the sidewalk toward Barrett’s car.
“So, what happened?” Katie gasps, slowing down.
“He was all over some other ratchet hoe,” Barrett snarls, digging her keys out of her jeans pocket.
“ What? ” Emma hisses, jerking her head in my direction.
I can no longer stave off the tears welling in my eyes as my chin begins to tremble.
God, are you kidding me? Don’t do this now.
I turn away to suck in a breath and compose myself, trying to bite back the rising lump in my throat.
Pull it together, he’s not worth all this.
But nothing gets past Barrett. She sees my jaw clench and my mouth twitch as I swipe a finger under my eye.
“No, Brett,” she drapes her arm around my neck, “ no, no, no… ”
Katie picks up on what’s happening and leaps to my side, hooking her arm in mine, “Oh, hell , no , ” she says angrily before softening her voice. “It’s going to be OK, Brett,” she coos, “seriously, Colson’s a fucking asshole. It’s probably for the best. He doesn’t deserve someone as amazing as you.”
I’m completely humiliated. And worse yet, Colson is the only reason I made the rest of them come here. Meantime, I’m starting to feel the effects of chugging an entire beer in less than 30 seconds.
Katie cranes her neck, peering back at the house, “Who’d you see him with, anyway?”
“Some Theta with dark hair and a lot of contouring,” Barrett replies as she brushes her hair out of her eyes.
“Theta…” Emma murmurs to herself, “ oh, that was definitely Dacia Ferguson. I saw her go in when we got here.”
“You mean Roto Rooter?” Katie snickers.
I jerk my head up, “ What? ”
“Yeah,” Katie tosses her empty Solo cup in a trashcan along the curb, “I know about her. She has a system,” she nods like she’s about to impart some major knowledge on us. “Dacia’s pre-law, planning on going to Harvard or some shit, and she’s so paranoid about accidentally getting pregnant that she only takes it in the ass. ”
I stop dead in my tracks, “ Nuh-uh! ” I shoot Katie a skeptical look.
Emma screws up her face and cringes, making her eye twitch, “That poor girl.”
“Poor girl, nothing!” Katie shoots back. “We were tailgating next to her at the Michigan game last fall and she was bragging about letting Casey Lesser, Nick Rogan, Taylor Higgs, and Jamie Hollingsworth run a train on her in her room at the Theta house the night before. Casey confirmed it. Her ass is—” Katie blows a puff of air from between her lips and splays her fingers out to imitate an explosion.
I lose it right there on the sidewalk and erupt in laughter. Barrett grabs my arm to stabilize herself as we both stumble down the sidewalk, cackling uncontrollably. Katie saunters along behind us, no doubt thinking something along the lines of, I told you so.
“If he’s hanging with Dacia tonight, maybe you dodged a bullet,” Barrett gasps.
“God...” the humiliation sets in once again, “can we just forget this?”
Barrett clicks her key fob and unlocks her red Volvo a few feet ahead of us, “Easier said than done. He’s gon’ learn,” she snickers, “Brett Sorensen doesn’t forget anything…”
●●●
It’s a curse, it truly is.
Whether minor irritations or deep disappointments, events remain in my brain long after they should’ve exited into the ether. Some people wish they could remember the fond memories that inevitably fade with time. I wish I could forget the warnings and humiliating moments my nervous system clings to without my consent. But, if I did, I might not be as discernable and I might make more mistakes. Which is why when Colson walks into class the following Tuesday, I’m prepared.
He scans the room until he sees me sitting on the opposite side in front of the windows. I know what he’ll do. He’ll walk across the room to the desk on my right, drop his backpack on the floor, and sit down.
Except this time, when he reaches the desk, I plant my foot on the edge of the metal rack underneath and kick the entire thing across the floor. It screeches across the tile, catching on the leg of another desk and spinning around before crashing into the glossy white cinderblock wall beneath the whiteboard. A few students jerk their heads up. Some continue watching to see what happens while others avert their eyes and lower their heads again in an effort to avoid witnessing a potentially awkward exchange.
Colson looks down at me, unsure of what just happened. I lean back in my chair and glare at him, tilting my head and daring him to say something. It’s much easier to look someone in the eye when you harbor nothing but disdain for them .
Choosing to say nothing, Colson reaches for a desk in the next row and scoots it forward to replace the one I launched to the front of the room. He sits down just as the next wave of students enter the room, followed by Dr. Selter, who immediately launches into a tirade about the pitfalls of film adaptations. I would be the star participant in discussion today if I didn’t want to smash my laptop over Colson’s head.
Instead, I stare straight ahead, stewing at the audacity Colson Lutz has to come in here and sit down next to me like nothing happened. I’m so busy seething that I don’t even realize it when he slides my notebook right out from under my elbow. He scribbles something at the top of the page and slides it back onto my desk, nonchalant as ever.
COLSON: Are you OK?
The answer is no. And maybe I should leave it at that—with no response. But I can’t leave it at that.
ME: Fuck off
COLSON: ?
ME: Are you that dense?
COLSON: What did I do?
I don’t know what’s so difficult to understand. If I specifically invited someone to a party, saw them there, and just ignored them, I don’t think I would be confused as to why that was bothersome. Did he forget? Who forgets something like that? Does he slight people all the time and that’s just how he rolls? Is he a fucking sociopath?
ME: Idk, acted like I didn’t exist on Friday?
COLSON: You left before I could talk to you
I clench my jaw, his response scrawled in blue pen sending a lightning bolt through my chest. What fucking arrogance. As if I bailed on him. As if he didn’t convince me to go to Cade and Anderson’s destroyed house with the collapsed porch, decaying carpet, furniture that may or may not have had dead animals hiding inside them, and linoleum that felt like it was lacquered with caramel.
ME: We were there for an hour. In the same room. You seemed busy .
I pause, turning over the words in my head. What am I debating? I can see the writing on the wall, so I might as well just say what I have to say even though I’m the most avoidant person ever. If Barrett was sitting next to me, she’d die of shock at what I’m about to say. I wiggle my purple pen between my index and middle fingers before putting it to the paper again.
ME: Do your friends ever ask why you sit with me or do they already know you just use me when you get bored?
This time, Colson stares at the notebook for much longer.
Before he can write anything else, I reach over and swipe it off his desk. I flip to the next page and began scribbling notes from the PowerPoint slides on the board. For the remainder of class, I stare ahead, refusing to look at him.
After dismissal, he stands up and steps in front of my desk, casting a shadow over me as he leans on the edge of my desk. That’s another thing, he’s also really tall, and now he’s hovering over me like a giant fucking umbrella that smells like peppermint and fabric softener.
“Brett?” His voice is soft, like he’s figuring out how to diffuse a bomb. I hope he blows both hands off.
I still don’t look at him, “Yeah?”
“Have you started your paper yet?”
“A couple pages,” I deadpan.
“Want to go to the library and work on them?”
I toss my notebook into my tote and look up. He’s looking at me intently while his fluorescent blue eyes wait for a response. “No,” I growl before sliding out of the desk and swinging my bag over my shoulder, refusing to look at him as I saunter out of the room.
Thursday is much of the same, and this time I keep my elbow planted firmly on my notebook because I don’t care what he has to say, written or otherwise. I stare at Selter’s PowerPoint comparing Dracula and Twilight while he interrogates some Junior over whether or not it’s acceptable for vampires to be sparkly emo kids. Selter’s going to lose. Once a girl in ripped jeans and crop top brings up Jacob Black and starts in on the modern relatability of werewolves and the duality of man, it’s over.
Meanwhile, all I feel are Colson’s eyes on the side of my face the entire class period.
Why does he even care what I think? He sure as hell didn’t last Friday. But for two hours straight, my left cheek tingles each time he triggers my gaze perception. I always thought that kind of thing was hokey, but I can feel him just like if he were to reach out and poke my shoulder. Maybe Colson is a vampire, with his telekinetic energy and stupid blue eyes that glow when the light hits them just right .
They’re not stupid. You love them, just like everyone else.
OK, fine, maybe I do. But he’s still a fucking prick.
Finally, the goddamn class ends and I can escape, if only to the virology lab for work. But by the time I pack up and rise from my desk, Colson is already standing in my path, blocking my exit. I remain motionless, glaring at his chest, and then realize he’s holding something at his side.
“I brought you something,” he lifts his arm and offers me a book.
I glance up at him with disdain, then at the cover. And when I do, I have to steel my reaction, clenching my jaw so that it doesn’t fall onto the floor.
It’s a first edition of Carrie , with original artwork, from back when Stephen King wasn’t Stephen King and the title on the cover was larger than his name. It looks old, the spine cracked and the pages feathered and worn with time. This book has gone through decades of redesign, where did he find an original one in short order?
It’s beautiful. And I love it. But I don’t like Colson. So, that’s a problem.
“Well,” I scowl, hiding my excitement as I study the cover, “I guess I should be grateful there wasn’t a prom for you to invite me to.” Then I shove the book into his chest and brush past him, getting angry at him all over again because I can’t keep the book purely out of principle.
It does, however, make a good story for when I tell Barrett about it in the coffee aisle at the grocery store that evening.
Barrett pushes her cart past me, stopping in front of the sugar-free syrups, “Man, you really shat him out like a goose crossing the road.”
“And the book was so cool , which of course just pissed me off all over again. Like, you blow me off to get laid and then gift me a rare book in class the next week?” I screw up my face and chuck a bag of dark roast into my cart, “Psycho…”
While scrolling through my shopping list, an Instagram notification pops up on my screen. I examine the preview, trying to register whose face I’m seeing, and stop dead in my tracks.
“Hey,” I call up to Barrett, “come see this.”
Barrett backs up her cart and peers over my shoulder. A second later, she arches her brow at Colson’s face staring back at us from the icon next to the message.
COLSON: I’m really sorry about the other night. I was a huge dick to you. Can you please talk to me?
“Well, well, well…” a sardonic grin creeps across Barrett’s face, “I think you should ignore him until tomorrow.”
“He can see I read it.”
Barrett snickers, “Even better.” She’s pretty wily when it comes to doling out punishment for social indiscretions .
“Really?” I still need her to convince me, which I feel incredibly stupid about.
“Yes!” she snaps, “He can sit there and wait. See how he likes being ignored for a while.”
She has a point, and the wound is still raw. He knew I was there, but said nothing while some rando chick hung all over him right in front of me. The only feeling I can compare it to is when I was in 8 th grade and my “friend”, Ally Dishong, said she would go “talk” to Eli Scalise for me at a party. She did, and somehow returned 30 minutes later as his girlfriend.
But I didn’t say anything back then. I was too timid and too much of a people-pleaser. I don’t know what changed, but now I don’t seem to have a problem kicking Colson’s desk across the room and telling him to get bent. Once I recall a few mortifying memories from middle school, it’s not too difficult to ignore Colson’s message.
I assume that’s the end of it, for the time being. But when Barrett and I arrive at the front door of our apartment, there’s a plastic shopping bag hanging from the knob. She sets down her bags of groceries, looks inside, and lifts out a book—the first edition of Carrie —and looks over her shoulder at me, eyes wide.
“ Girl, ” she chuckles, “he brought this back here for you.”
“How does he even know where we live?” I hiss, grabbing the book from her.
Barrett shrugs, “I guess he could’ve just asked someone we know. It’s not like it’s a secret.”
Her words aren’t very comforting. But before I can respond, I notice there’s a bookmark stuck in the front cover that wasn’t there before.
When I open it, my jaw actually does fall open this time, “What the—”
The title page is signed by Stephen King, himself. I’m no expert, but it looks like it’s real. On the back of the front cover, I recognize Colson’s handwriting in black ballpoint pen.
You’re right, the book is better than the movie.
“Is it signed? ” Barrett leans over my shoulder, peering at the page, “Is that for real? ”
The bookmark also isn’t actually a bookmark. It’s an index card with a phone number written on it—Colson’s phone number.
Barrett jerks her head up, eyes still bulging, “Are you going to respond to him now? ”
I might’ve been rendered speechless at our front door, but if I need to make an important decision, standing under a showerhead and soaking myself in scalding water usually does the trick.
My phone sits on the edge of the sink, the volume turned all the way up so my playlist reverberates through my impromptu sauna. After five minutes of standing in front of the mirror, staring at the screen while towel scrunching, I pick up the phone and text him .
ME (8:32PM): Fine. When and where?
I’m still not about to engage in some lengthy, overly emotional exchange with Colson. A few minutes later, as I’m pulling a t-shirt over my head, my phone vibrates.
COLSON (8:39PM): Friday at the library. I get off work at 6. I’ll text you when I’m on the way.
Again, with the library. And on a Friday night? He’s either really lame or has something else in mind. Either way, I still want to find out.
On Friday, at exactly 5:00, there’s a knock at the door. Katie and Emma don’t wait for anyone to answer before strolling into the apartment with tote bags full of curling irons, clothes, and makeup bags to prepare for a routine Friday night of dinner and bar crawling.
“Brett!” Emma calls from the bathroom in the hallway, “What are you wearing?”
I glance up from the sofa, my feet propped up on the coffee table, and then look down at myself, still wearing black leggings and a grey Columbus Clippers V-neck t-shirt.
“I’m not going,” I call toward the bathroom.
“Why not?” Katie emerges from the kitchen, peeling a banana.
Suddenly, Barrett leans out of her bedroom doorway like a snake slinking around a tree, “Tell them where you’re going,” she smirks, “who you’re going with,” her mouth slowly stretches into a toothy grin, “and why. ”
Goddamnit…
Emma eyes me from the bathroom doorway, holding a curling iron to her honey blonde hair. Katie props her knee up on the arm of the sofa, chewing a mouthful of banana.
I clear my throat, “I’m going to the library.”
They both glance at one another in confusion and then stare at me in silence. Emma looks at Barrett for an explanation, but she’s busy eyeing me mischievously.
“What?” Katie scoffs.
I avert my eyes, “With Colson.” I glance up quickly and then pretend to check my phone.
“ What? ” Katie repeats, struggling to speak through her mouthful of banana, “You’re going to go out with him after what happened last week?”
Barrett raises her fingers into air quotes, “ Going out… ” she chortles from the hallway.
“So…” I sigh, trying to think of how to explain the situation without sounding like a desperate idiot with nothing better to do, “after I ignored hi m for most of the week, he gave me a first edition of Carrie signed by Stephen King.”
Katie and Emma go silent again, eyes darting back and forth between one another.
“He left it at our door,” Barrett croons from the bathroom.
“Holy shit, ” Emma finally blurts out.
Katie swallows her mouthful of banana and straightens up, “You know,” she narrows her eyes with a coy smile, “I didn’t tell you this, but I knew about Colson before we went to that party.”
I clasp my hands over my stomach and squint at her, “I got that much, but what do you know about him?”
“Dominic knows him,” Katie replies, referring to her boyfriend, “he street races with him—or used to. Definitely ran from the cops, might’ve been involved in a high-speed chase…”
Emma pulls the curling iron away from her head, letting her hair spring back against her face. In her other hand, she furiously swipes her thumb across her phone screen.
She sets the curling iron down on the vanity and scurries around the back of the sofa, “Is this him?”
She leans over my shoulder to show me the screen. I recognize Colson immediately in the photo posted to a stranger’s Facebook page. He’s clearly at a Halloween party, dressed like an airline pilot in a white button-down shirt, black tie, and aviators with a pair of gold wings pinned to his collar. He’s sitting in the middle of a dingey maroon futon with a girl on each knee and three more sitting on either side of him. They’re all dressed as flight attendants, each in a short, skin-tight Navy-blue dress with a plunging neckline and silk scarf tied around their neck.
Colson looks like a douche. Much like he did at the last party I saw him at.
I nod in confirmation, “Yup, that’s him.”
Katie cranes her neck to examine the photo, “Lovely,” she says with a roll of her eyes, “oh, and I’m pretty sure Dominic said Colson spent last summer in Alaska out in the middle of nowhere—like, by himself—and he might’ve gotten attacked by a bear.”
“ What? ” I scrunch my face up, completely confused.
“Oh yeah,” she adds, “and he sleeps with all the Deltas.”
I blink, unsure of what to do with such a random smattering of information. Then again, I did ask what Katie knew about Colson. And the university rumor mill is alive and well, so accuracy cannot be guaranteed.
“So, let me process this,” Emma plants a perfectly manicured hand on her hip, “this guy, Colson , captain of the friendly skies, who also sleeps with all the Deltas—”
“ Delta Airlines…” Katie interrupts with a snicker .
I cringe as Emma continues, “invited you to a party last Friday, blew you off, left a signed first edition of a book you like at your door, and then asked you to go to the library on a Friday night , to work on a paper?”
“Yeah,” I shrug, not knowing what else to say.
Emma taps the air with her index finger, “There’s something real sketch about this.”
I frown, feeling slightly offended, “Why?”
She squints at me skeptically, “Doesn’t it seem odd to you?”
I crossed my arms with indignance, “Yeah, it’s real sketch that some guy wants to spend time with me!”
Emma thrusts her arm out in desperation, “But it’s the library! And after what he did?”
Katie’s eyebrows shoot up and she smacks her knee, “Exactly! That’s the last place something sketch would happen!”
“That’s not true!” Barrett bursts out of the bedroom, “Have you ever been back in the stacks late at night? Some people are freaks.”
Katie’s eyes light up, “Maybe that’s why he wants to go to the library!”
“ Oh my god! ” I shout in exasperation, slamming my palm down on the sofa cushion.
Suddenly, I feel my phone vibrate.
COLSON (6:09PM): Be on campus in 15
Ten minutes later, after practically fleeing my apartment, I’m in my blue Impreza speeding toward campus to meet Colson at the glass doors in front of Thompson. I’m not a complete fool, I make sure to look halfway decent by scrunching my hair and putting on some makeup before I leave, even if I have to deal with Katie and Barrett’s jeers and Emma’s disapproving looks as I go.
I park on an empty side street next to the classroom buildings, where I can already hear the familiar Friday night sounds in the distance; disembodied shouts and laughs preparing to guzzle too much alcohol in too short of a time.
I stroll into the oval, meandering along the spiderweb paths and breathing aromas of cut grass and wood fire smoke. As I approach the cut stone arches framing the entrance, I see Colson standing against the wall next to the glass doors, his hands tucked in the pockets of his hunter green Patagonia jacket. He’s wearing charcoal grey joggers with a black T-shirt and the same grey and neon yellow sneakers he wears every single day. As soon as we make eye contact, I wave and he comes to the edge of the brick path to wait for me.
“You made it.” His deep voice sounds louder without the dull roar of a crowded campus .
“Barely,” I say as I follow him to the glass doors, “I didn’t realize how everyone would lose their minds after they found out I was going to the library and not out to the bar.”
“Which ones do you go to?” he asks, holding the door open for me.
“Either Tank’s or Four North.”
“I’ve never seen you at Four North.”
I glance over my shoulder at him with a smirk, “I guess that depends how drunk you are.”
Or how many girls are hanging on you at one time.
“Brett’s got jokes,” he drawls as he follows me through the doors.
We make our way across the marble floor to the stairs and up the staircase to the third floor, emerging into a long room lined with thick, oak tables. The entire floor looks empty, unsurprising for a Friday night. I choose one across the room beneath one of the giant windows.
“Hey, um…” I hesitate as I pull out my chair, trying to decide how to broach the subject, “thank you—for the book.” It shouldn’t be this difficult, but it is.
“You’re welcome,” Colson cracks a smile and sits down next to me.
“It must’ve been hard to find,” I say as I take my laptop out of my bag, “and expensive. Where did you get it?”
He gives a shrug and drops his backpack next to his chair, “You can find anything if you know the right people.”
I respond with a massive side-eye, “And you know people who conveniently have signed first editions of a book we were randomly talking about in a random elective course?”
“Just enjoy it,” he smiles, “I meet a lot of different people at work.”
“Where do you work?”
Colson shakes off his jacket and lets it fall over the back of his chair, “The Metro Parks. I didn’t think it would be as cool as interning with the rangers at a national park, but it’s not bad.”
“Is that what you want to do—be a park ranger?”
“That’s the plan,” he leans back and stretches, clasping his hands behind his head, “be outside all day, with the trees and animals, maybe eventually make it out west,” he grins, “I guess we’ll see what happens.”
“That’s a good attitude to have.”
He glances at the home screen on his laptop and then at me, “What about you?”
I gaze across the room at the walls decorated with intricate wood carvings and elegant crown molding painted a warm white. I don’t have a clue what I want to do as a Biomedical Engineering major with a minor in English.
“Probably research,” I scrunch up my nose, “there’s a lot of contract and academic research around here, so I’ll probably end up doing something like that. ”
Colson tosses his camo Mossy Oak cap onto the table and runs his fingers through his dark auburn hair, returning it to its usual chaotic mess, “Where are you from?”
“North Bay,” I prop my elbow on the table and rest my chin in my hand, “up on the lake. Where are you from?”
“I was born in Colorado, outside Gunnison. My dad still lives there, but I moved to Dire Ridge with my mom in elementary school. That’s how I ended up here.”
“OK,” I nod, “so out west is kind of home for you.”
For a moment, Colson’s eyes suddenly take on a far-off look, “Not really,” he shakes his head, “it’s beautiful out there, but this is where my home is.” He changes the subject and motions to my shirt, “You like baseball?”
“Yeah, I guess,” I glance down at my shirt with its Navy blue and white C wrapped around an anchor, “I played softball in high school, but I’ve only been to a couple games here. Now, I just bike.”
“Really?”
There’s subtle change in Colson’s tone and when I look up, he’s staring at me with his mouth slightly ajar. His eyes are laser focused on me, like I just said something surprising.
I squint back at him, “Yeah?”
His expression immediately returns to normal when he realizes he’s looking at me like a total weirdo, “What position did you play?”
“Second base.”
This time, I watch his face, and when I respond, he looks down at the floor and presses his mouth together like he’s either trying not to smile or trying not to say what he’s really thinking.
Maybe he just really likes baseball…
He changes the subject—again, “Have you been here since freshman year?”
“Yes,” I give a laugh, making it obvious that I’ve noticed his weird responses.
“I’ve never seen you around until this year.”
“It’s a big place—you probably have and didn’t notice.”
“I would’ve noticed.”
I cast him a skeptical look, “Why?”
Colson cracks a smile, “Because you always have this fuck around and find out look on your face.” To which I let out an unexpectedly loud laugh, my voice echoing through the empty room. “Fiery redhead over here,” he adds with a smirk.
“I am not!” I shoot back, “And even if I do look like that, it goes well with this unbothered vibe you have going on.”
He furrows his brow, “What’s that? ”
I eye him for a moment and then sit back in my chair, cross my arms, stretch my legs out under the table, cross my ankles, relax my face into a stolid expression, and then slowly tilt my head to the side.
“Do I really look like that?”
“All the time,” I say with a nod.
Colson bites his lip, “Fine,” then he scoots his chair closer to the table and motions to my laptop, “so, what the fuck are we supposed to be writing about?”
I click on my bookmark to Carmen in my browser’s toolbar, where my classes and all their assignments are listed, “Don’t feel bad,” I click the link to the PDF of our paper guidelines, chuckling to myself as I drag the cursor back and forth, “I swear that I’ve seen you somewhere before, but I don’t know where. It’s been driving me crazy all semester.”
“Really?” Colson glances at me with intrigue.
“ Yeah, ” I knit my brow in frustration as I stare at him, trying for the millionth time, to place his face.
I don’t know why this bothers me so much. It’s more annoying than anything. But, this time, when I look at him, my heart stops. His shoulders are slumped forward so his head is bowed ever so slightly, making his face look exactly like it does in my mind when I try to remember where I’ve seen him. His mouth is relaxed, but not quite smiling, and his aquamarine eyes are studying me, like he’s waiting for me to do or say something.
I feel a jolt of adrenaline and my skin starts to tingle. It’s right there—his face is right there—but nothing comes to mind. It’s just a void, a vacant gap in time.
“Just like this,” I nod at him and sit up straight, trying to shake the eerie feeling scurrying up my back.
Colson cracks a smile, “Like what?”
“I have this really weird memory of seeing your face exactly like this—” I motion to him, “same angle, same distance away, same everything. But I know I haven’t, because I only met you this semester.”
“Wow,” Colson holds my gaze for a moment, then shrugs, “maybe you have seen me before.”
“I don’t know,” I shake my head, “it’s weird.” And then I dismiss the thought, yet again, before I rotate my laptop toward him and begin scanning the assignment.
When Colson leans forward to read it, I suddenly feel something just above my knee. My eyes fall to my leg, where Colson’s left hand is now resting on my thigh. His thumb taps the top of my leg and the rest of his fingers curve around the inside. When I slowly shift my eyes back up, he’s still staring at the screen reading the document.
Unbothered.
My heart starts pounding in my ears because Colson Lutz is touching me .
At first, it seems like he’s totally unaware, his head tilted in his usual bored demeanor as though his hands are operating independently from his body. His fingers contract along the inside of my thigh, like someone busying their hands absentmindedly. Meanwhile, my eyes dart in and out of my periphery, unsure of what to do or how to respond.
Finally, he leans back in his chair and looks at me, “I’m going to be honest. I really don’t want to be here right now.”
I look at his hand, which hasn’t moved, “OK?”
Colson furrows his brow, “Do you?”
“You really think I want to spend a Friday night at the fucking library writing a paper?”
A smile spreads across his face, “I didn’t know what you like to do, so I decided to start here.”
I press my mouth together with irritation, “You could’ve just asked, ” I snip. “A party sounds like a lot more fun, doesn’t it?”
I don’t care if he’s touching me, that was still dirty.
Colson straightens up and lets his head fall back, then closes his eyes and runs his hands up his face, rubbing his eyes in exasperation. He leans forward and grabs both sides of my chair, rotating the whole thing until I’m facing him, and then grasps the sides of my thighs.
“Hey,” he lowers his voice and speaks slowly with intention, “I’m really sorry I treated you like that. I’ll never do it again. And the only place I want to be right now is here with you.”
I can’t get over Colson’s blue lagoon eyes. They’re too distracting. The longer I stare at them, the more I start to believe him. That, and I also want him to keep touching me. I’ll stay here at the library doing nothing and waste an entire Friday night if it means he won’t take his hands off my legs.
“It’s probably better that happened, though,” he runs his thumbs back and forth over my leggings as he speaks.
I squint at him suspiciously, “Why?”
“Because now it’s just you and me, with no noise, no drunk idiots, and no distractions.”
I shift my jaw back and forth, trying in vain to tamp down the smile tugging at my muscles. Maybe it’s childish, but I still want him to think I’m angry. And I still am, to some extent. But I still wonder if he’s being authentic or if he’s just another asshole with nothing better to do. I’m failing, though. He sees right through it.
“Do you want to get out of here?”
“And do what?”
Colson gazes around the room at the medieval tapestries lining the third floor from one side to the other, “I don’t know,” he muses, “want to just drive and figure it out on the way?”
Without a word, I reach up and slowly push my laptop closed, clicking it shut with a smile .
The sun has already disappeared behind the maples lining the far side of the oval, casting a splash of pink through the clouds that fades into a deep purple. I closely follow Colson around the side of the building toward a line of parallel parked cars.
He motions further up the sidewalk, “I’m just up here.”
I slow to a halt when I reach the back bumper of a red SUV. My eyes run along the sides, up the front, and back to the bumper again, eyeing the white FORD painted across the raised metal of the hatch.
“Do you seriously drive an old Bronco?”
Colson looks over his shoulder at me, his hand on the driver’s side door, “It’s not old, it’s a classic,” he responds with a grin, “Eddie Bauer edition, even.”
I make my way to the passenger side and tug open the door. The interior looks like it’s either never been driven or been totally restored to its original state. I hoist myself into the beige leather seat and lift my bag over the center console to the back. The back of the Bronco is devoid of seats and now serves as one large cargo area with a tool box and duffel bag pushed against the wall. Laying on the black floorboards are a couple of green, metal T-posts and two large, yellow rolls of measuring tape. Colson sets his backpack down in his lap and unzips the main compartment.
He lifts a bottle from his backpack and hands it to me, “This is for you.”
I recognize the familiar shape and turn it around to read the label. A Naked Mango Madness smoothie—with protein.
I break into a laugh, “It’s like we’re back in class !” I exclaim sarcastically.
“God,” Colson backs the Bronco into the empty space behind him and shifts into drive, “I hope I’m more interesting than that.”
He spins the steering wheel and pulls away from the curb, leaving the library and any thoughts of academic rigor behind. I take a sip of the mango smoothie, eyeing him from the passenger seat.
“What?” he demands as we speed through campus.
“Friday night at the library writing a paper?” I shake my head with a tsk, “So lame.”
“Whatever,” Colson chuckles and flips his turn signal, “you did say yes.”
He has me there.
“OK,” Colson looks at me out of the corner of his eye, “where to?”
“Get on 315,” I reply, pondering the variety of options along this thoroughfare.
A few minutes later, Colson hits the accelerator and merges onto the freeway, going south, away from campus. Following the river, we pass the downtown skyline illuminated by the setting sun, continue beyond the soccer stadium, and approach the southwest side of the city.
“Alright,” Colson scans the highway signage along the road, “now where are we going? ”
I empty the rest of the smoothie into my mouth and twist the cap back on the bottle, “It’s your turn,” I chirp as I reach behind me and drop the spent bottle into my bag.
Colson flips his turn signal and veers onto the interstate ramp, “How about Cincinnati?” He reaches for the volume knob and turns up the stereo, filling the Bronco with Satellite by Starset.
“Sounds good,” I nod as I begin to peel off my fleece jacket.
“You’re really OK with this?”
Once my arms are free, I settle back into my seat and brush my hair out of my eyes, “Why not?”
●●●
I feel a tap on my arm and look up from my plate of bougie nachos to see Colson’s arm extended out in front of us. He’s holding his phone in selfie-mode and I, instinctively, tilt my head toward him and smile.
“What’s that?” I ask as he retracts his arm.
“It’s so people know that I do like hanging out with you outside of class.”
“Ah,” I nod, “an hour and a half away on the riverfront, no less.”
A moment later, I feel my phone buzz with the notification that I’m tagged in the photo.
“No riverfront, yet,” Colson slides his phone back into his pocket, “I can take another one outside.”
“You’re nothing if not thorough,” I say, wiping my fingers on a napkin and drop it next to my plate, “but I have to ask…”
“Mm-hm?” Colson rests his elbows on the edge of the bar and looks at me expectantly.
“Were you attacked by a bear in Alaska?”
He stares at me with amusement, “What?”
His response doesn’t surprise me. It was a vague story, if you could call it that, and the accuracy was questionable, just like most of the conversation that took place in the apartment before I left.
“My friend, Katie Van Outer, said her boyfriend, Dominic, knows you and that you used to street race and you went to Alaska and were attacked by a bear.”
Colson picks up his glass and gulps down the rest of his beer. Eyeing me, he retrieves his wallet from the pocket of his joggers and pulls out a credit card, dropping it on top of the check behind the plate of nachos.
“Yeah, I know Dominic,” he takes his time responding, knowing that I don’t actually care whether he knows Dominic or not, “and I can neither confirm nor deny my street racing experience,” he smirks, “but I did work in Alaska last summer. I saw a lot of bears, but I didn’t get attacked by any.”
“Not as exciting,” I concede, “but I’m glad that part wasn’t true. ”
Once the bartender slides his card and a receipt back over the counter, Colson slides off his stool and pushes it back under the bar with his foot, “Anything else you want to know?”
Yes, where the hell do I recognize you from?
But, instead, I just shake my head, “That’s it…for now.”
He extends his hand and I take it, sliding off the bar stool. Except, when I loosen my grip, he doesn’t let go, rotating my hand and intertwining his fingers in mine. The chill of the night air gives me a burst of energy as I follow him down the pavement toward the path along the river, the beaming skyscrapers behind us giving the sky a greyish hue.
“You know,” Colson glances at me out of the corner of his eye, “I can show you a video of one of the bears.”
I stop dead in my tracks and look up at him, intrigued. He grins and motions to the brick wall lining the path. At the wall, I turn around and hop up on the edge while Colson begins scrolling through his pictures. Finally, he turns his phone on its side and hands it to me, tapping the play icon.
In the distance, a giant brown bear lumbers across the wet sand of a beach, coming closer to a cluster of tents. It takes a whole minute for the bear to arrive at the tents, where murmurs can be heard in the background. It towers over the tents and folding chairs before it stops, sniffs one of the chairs, and then continues on, unconcerned with the bystanders.
I look up at Colson, impressed, “Wow,” I hand the phone back to him, “OK, that’s pretty cool.”
He rolls his eyes, “ Pretty cool… ”
“I said it was cool!” I shoot back with a laugh.
“Fine,” he tucks his phone back into his coat pocket, “then tell me something cool about you.”
I take a deep breath, gazing out into the black water, “I don’t know.” I try to think of something as interesting as camping on beaches and getting sniffed out by apex predators, but nothing immediately comes to mind.
“Yes, you do,” Colson scoffs, “quit being shy.”
There is one thing. But I never really talk about it with anyone except Barrett. I stare across the path at a random spot in the grass, debating whether to even go there. But, for some inexplicable reason, Colson feels like a safe person to tell. Even if he did act like a douche…
Fine, what the hell.
I turn to meet his eyes, “I want to write books.”
Colson stares at me for a few moments, until I feel like maybe I made a mistake by telling him. Then a faint smile crawls across his face, “What kind of books?”
“Fiction. Thrillers, suspense, horror—dark stuff.”
He studies me with those icy fucking eyes, like he’s trying to decide whether I’m serious. I stare back at him, waiting for some reaction.
“Have you written anything? ”
“Yes,” I look down at the pavement, “but nothing complete.”
“Can I read it?”
I hesitate, caught off-guard, “Do you like that kind of stuff?” I did not expect this response from him.
Colson glances off to the side, “Dark stuff? Yes. And if it’s coming from your head,” he turns his attention back to me, “then, yes, I definitely want to read it.”
“You might be waiting a while, but I’ll let you know when it’s finished.”
“Fair enough. In the meantime,” he steps between my legs, still dangling from the edge of the wall, “you know what else would be cool?”
I arch my brow at him, “What?”
Colson slides his hand around the back of my neck and gently pulls my face to his. But, even as a wave of butterflies explodes through my stomach, I tilt my head to the side, evading his lips.
He can apologize, bring me signed copies of books by one of my favorite authors, drive me to Cincinnati, buy me dinner on the river, and listen to my hopes and dreams, but he’s not about to get away with his insolence that easily. Maybe it’s petty, but I’m not over his superb assholery inviting me to a party and then humiliating me in front of my friends.
Colson eyes me for a moment and then gently pulls me to him again. This time, I lift my chin so his lips brush my neck. I level my head, looking him in the eye the entire time just to match his own brand of arrogance.
His mouth curls into a half-smile that would drive me wild if I didn’t have my own agenda at the moment, “Whatcha doing?”
“What are you doing?” I taunt back.
Colson looks me up and down, “Trying to see what you taste like.”
I lean forward until my nose touches his, “Ask me nicely,” I whisper with a wry smile.
Something subtle changes in his expression, and if I hadn’t been staring into those pale blue eyes, I never would’ve noticed. It feels like I’ve gone from the girl he flirts with in class to his next meal.
Colson lowers his arms and wraps them around my waist, pulling me closer to him by the small of my back. I don’t budge, my hands flat on the cold brick next to my legs. He nudges my head to the side, leaning in until his breath rushes into my ear.
“Let me kiss you,” he flicks my earlobe with his tongue, sending a chill up my spine, “ please. ”
I pull back to meet his eyes and shoot him a coy smile, “I’ll think about it,” I whisper back.
I press my hands against his chest, gently pushing him back so I can jump down from the wall. Colson eyes me as I brush past him and return to the walking path, stopping on the pavement to wait for him.
Once he joins me, he nods toward the hillside and offers his hand, “Let’s go. ”
I gladly slide my fingers into his and follow him back up the path to the parking lot. Back at his Bronco, he opens the passenger door, but then steps in front of me, blocking my way.
He motions to me with his index finger, “Come here,” and when I do, he bows his head and gazes down at me with a smile as thick and sugary as honey, “you should know something.” Suddenly, he seizes the top of my throat between his thumb and forefinger and backs me against the open door.
My hand flies to his wrist in surprise and my heart begins to race, bombarded with a bizarre mixture of confusion, adrenaline, and more thrill than I’d like to admit. He leans in, and for a moment I think he’s going to kiss me by force, but all he does is give my throat a gentle squeeze, “You’re going to pay for that back there,” he murmurs before dropping his arm and nodding at me to get into the car.
I snap my mouth shut after realizing it’s hanging halfway open, and hastily climb into the Bronco. I watch Colson’s every movement as he strolls around the front of the car to the driver’s side and, a second later, I feel my phone vibrate. I dig my phone out of my jacket to see a text from Barrett.
BARRETT (10:13PM): You’re in Cincinnati????
How does she know that? Oh, yeah, I’m tagged in pictures…
ME (10:14PM): I’ll tell you about it later.
Her response is filled with a barrage of shocked face emojis and an excessive amount of fire icons. I grin and drop my phone into my bag as Colson opens the door. I glance over at him as he collapses into the driver’s seat, trying to ignore the fact that I’m more attracted to him now than I was two minutes ago.
And I probably shouldn’t be.
“So, what are we doing?” I chirp, trying to ignore the ember catching fire in the pit of my stomach.
“I don’t know, I have two hours to decide,” Colson replies as he turns the key in the ignition, bringing the Bronco to life. “Maybe I’ll still see what you taste like.”
I shoot him a look from the passenger seat, “I still didn’t say you could kiss me.”
He gives me a once-over and shifts into drive, “I don’t have to kiss you to find that out.”
●● ●
When I wake up, it’s still dark. I can see the moon in the window, but the silhouettes of the trees are upside down. Why are they upside down? And why do I feel like I’m moving? Where am I?
I’m jolted awake as I fall off the bed and hit the rug. I can’t move one of my arms. Colson has hold of my wrist and is dragging me across the floor away from the bed. I try to roll over and get up, but my muscles don’t work. I’m only half-awake, murmuring incoherently, and I’m moving too quickly to find my footing.
Finally, Colson releases my wrist and lets me fall with a thud onto the floor, startling me awake.
It’s cold. I’m naked.
I see a shadow pass over me and then he grabs my shoulder and jerks me onto my back before dropping down and lodging his knees on either side of my hips. His fingertips dig into my shoulders as he grabs me and slams me into the floor, over and over. I see stars, but I’m not sure whether they’re in the window or my head.
“Colson!” I gasp for air and my arms fly to his shoulders, but he crosses his forearm over my chest and pins them back down.
He’s pressing me into the floor so hard I think my bones might shatter under his strength.
“Shut up!” Colson shouts through his teeth before he lets me go long enough to lunge for the side table next to the bed.
I roll over in time to see him jerk open the drawer and grab something before spinning back around. My body is pulsing with adrenaline, but my legs won’t cooperate and I can’t stand up in time. In one stride he’s on me again. He grabs my bicep and wrenches my arm back, throwing me across the floor.
“Colson, stop!” I cough as a sharp pain radiates through my shoulder.
He steps over me and drops down onto my hips, smashing my shoulders into the floor with his arm again. When his other arm swings into view, I see the outline of a gun in his hand. I let out a shrill, airy scream, my eyes fixed on the black 9mm held out at his side. And then I see his face. He looks dead behind the eyes. His pupils are dilated, making his irises look black instead of blue.
He presses my hips into the carpet, his jaw clenched in a blind rage. Screams burn my throat as I claw at his arm with one hand while extending my other out in front of me, as if blocking his gun with my splayed-out fingers will protect me.
I let out another jarring howl as Colson raises his arm and brings the gun down, pointing it between my eyes, “No, no, no, no, no!” I scream as my legs flail beneath him in a surge of panic.
“ I said shut the fuck up! ” he yells so loud I think my eardrums will burst.
I press my lips together and squeeze my eyes shut, but my body shakes with the silent sobs pulsing from my chest. All I can feel are his muscles like stone crushing my shoulders and the tap of the cold gun barrel between my eyes. When I dare to open them, Colson is glaring down at me, his teeth clenched through parted lips and every muscle in his body trembling with rage.
“I know what you did,” he rasps, pressing the barrel harder into my forehead.
“No!” My jaw drops and I shake my head frantically, “What?”
“Say it!” Colson shouts so forcefully, I feel his spit hit my cheek.
“ Colson ,” I sob, tears pouring down the corners of my eyes and into my hair, “I don’t know—”
“Open your mouth,” he barks, sending a jolt through my chest.
I freeze, my mouth still half-open as he slides the gun down the bridge of my nose. I shut my mouth but he presses the barrel hard into my lips.
“Open your mouth,” he snarls, “before I knock your goddamn teeth into your throat.”
A pathetic sob escapes my throat as I do what he says. And when I open my mouth, he slides the barrel over my lips, catching my teeth. It’s disgusting and leaves an oily metallic taste on my tongue.
“Colson, please… ” I plead with him, but it just comes out like wet gibberish.
Colson slides the barrel over my tongue and further to the back of my throat. It scrapes across my palate, making me wince in pain. I finally gag on it, digging my nails into his arm as my chest heaves beneath him. He pulls it back and pauses, then does it again. After a third time, I think I’m going to throw up.
He looks like he’s enjoying it. Each time I retch into his gun, his cheek muscles twitch like he’s trying not to smile.
“You want to tell me now? ” he snarls, shifting his weight on my body.
And when he does, he loosens his arm ever so slightly. I feel the relief in my shoulder and, by some miracle reflex, I reel back and swing my fist as hard as I can. Somehow, I catch him solidly in the jaw, throwing his head to the side with a pop and knocking him off-balance.
Colson falls backward, the gun tumbles out of my mouth, and he throws his head to the side with a curse. I roll over, unleashing another torrent of screams as I scramble across the carpet. But Colson is between me and the bedroom door. He hasn’t moved, still on his hands and knees, breathing heavily.
Finally, he lifts his head, his mouth hanging open. Swallowing hard, he rises up onto his knees, the window panes casting black stripes across his face and torso. He raises an arm and touches his bare chest with his palm. I watch him, absolutely petrified. I want to run as fast as I can, but I’m frozen in place, shaking and crying. Colson slowly looks down at the gun in his other hand, then back at me.
Get out .
Finally, I feel a rush of adrenaline, jump up, and scurry over the bed. I keep my eyes glued to him as I move around the other side, shaking and gasping. I need to get out, escape before he decides to shoot me right then and there. I see a balled-up article of clothing on the floor and grab it. It doesn’t matter what it is.
Colson stands up and takes a few steps toward the bed, still holding the gun. I make myself take a few more steps, slowly creeping toward the end of the bed. He doesn’t move at first, he just stands there watching me. He doesn’t look angry anymore.
He finally speaks, his voice returning to its normal baritone, “Baby … ”
As soon as I hear his voice, it’s like a whip crack and I leap toward the door, throwing it open and bursting into the hallway. I half run, half fall down the stairs and tear across the living room, down the hallway to the foyer, and out the front door. I grab my tote next to the door and flee the house, literally naked, leaving the door hanging open as I sprint across the grass to my car parked behind the red Bronco.
I throw my belongings across the center console, not caring where they land, as I tear through the front pocket of my bag to find my keys. Fumbling with my keys, I keep an eye on the front door to see if he’ll emerge and come after me.
I finally start the car, throw it in reverse, and whip out of the driveway. I stop at a redlight as I leave the neighborhood and take the opportunity to put on whatever clothing I grabbed off the bedroom floor. I hold it up through tears, trying to figure out how to put it on.
It’s Colson’s t-shirt.
I break down into even more of screaming mess as I pull it over my head. It still smells like him.
Later, I’ll be impressed that I drove home having a full-blown panic attack. My mind is racing, but no coherent thoughts materialize, as I’m still focused on surviving the night. After I park my car in front of the apartment, I grip the top of the steering wheel, every emotion bubbling over. I let out a primal scream and press my forehead against the wheel, sobbing uncontrollably.
After a few minutes, I take a deep breath and try to compose myself enough to make it inside. Glancing around nervously, I scurry out of the car and hurry down the sidewalk toward the stairwell. Except I don’t make it five steps before I double over, throwing up the entire contents of my stomach into the grass.
Even as I puke my guts out, I hope no one who works third shift walks by and sees a barefoot woman with crazy hair, dressed in nothing but a man’s t-shirt, hauling a tote bag and vomiting off the edge of the sidewalk in front of some unsuspecting person’s apartment. If they do, maybe they’ll decide they can’t deal with this kind of drama and just keep walking. It would benefit us both .
After a couple of dry heaves, I make a run for it and take the steps two at a time to my front door. I unlock it as quietly as possible and slowly go inside. Katie and Emma are asleep on either side of the sectional, so I take a deep breath and creep across the carpet in my bare feet as quickly as I can, just another shadow in the room.
I breathe again only when my bedroom door clicks shut and I twist the lock on the handle. I trudge into my bathroom and turn on the light, only to be met by a disheveled woman in the mirror wearing a man’s t-shirt and nothing else. My hair is a mess. Some curls stick out at maximum volume and others hang almost straight from laying on them. I turn away in despair, reaching into the shower to twist the lever. I sit down on the floor of the shower, letting the scalding water run all over me. My body aches, inside and out.
It hurts. It hurts so bad.
Afterward, I pull on a fresh pair of pajamas and bury myself in my sheets and comforter, wishing for a coma. I try to block out each buzz of my phone until I can’t take it anymore and I delete the entire barrage of texts from Colson without looking at a single one. Then I block his number.
More than anything, I want to sleep and wake up in a world where the last hour never happened.
What the hell just happened?
I cry in silence for the Colson I knew at the beginning of the night—the one I’m still enamored with, even now. And I cry in horror, never again wanting to see the Colson who wanted me dead hours later. I just hope I can fall into a deep sleep and not wake up again until the apartment is empty and I don’t have to answer any questions about the night before.