Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
Blaire
“And this is why I don’t drink wine,” I groan, holding my temples.
The sun is too bright outside my office windows. The staff is too noisy. The sandwich that someone made in the break room is too stinky for me this afternoon.
“Can two glasses of wine in the evening cause this much pain this many hours later?” I ask Yancy as she enters my office. “Because I swear my head is going to split open.”
Yancy sets a cup of coffee on the edge of my desk. “Maybe this will help.”
I don’t have the heart to tell her that the smell makes me want to gag.
My blood pulses in my temple. It’s almost blinding. The pain is unrelenting despite the migraine medicine I took this morning.
It’s unbearable.
“You look really bad—in a sick, not a rude kind of way,” Yancy says.
“I don’t even have the energy to be offended by that.”
“Good.” She leans against the wall and crosses her arms over her chest. “You have a pretty tan.”
“Thanks.”
She’s trying to cheer me up, and I’m grateful for that. But the truth is that I don’t want to be cheered up. I want to wallow in my misery for a day or two, get it over with, and then move on with my life.
After Sienna left, I looked up heartbreak. Everything I read said that you really have to own your feelings before you can proceed with life. It matches what I know from my experience with Jack. So I’m going to feel this pain unless it kills me.
And it might.
“Yancy,” I say, standing up from behind my desk, “I’m going to go outside for some fresh air for a few minutes. I just need to clear my head. That sandwich that Barnard is eating is making me sick.”
“It’s tuna fish.” She curls her nose. “I saw it in the fridge this morning. I almost threw it out so we didn’t have to endure this, but I thought that was improper.”
“You work for an attorney. I can get you out of trouble.” I look at her and laugh. “Throw it away next time.”
“You got it.”
She steps to the side as I pass.
“I’ll be back up shortly. I won’t be gone long,” I tell her.
I keep my eyes focused on the wall ahead of me as I make my way to the elevators.
The office is bustling with people catching up from the shut-down and gossiping about whether they really found a dead body or if it really was asbestos.
It’s only when I’m in the elevator that I can put my guard down.
I punch the number for the ground floor and lean against the metal rail along the back wall. It’s cool under the thin fabric of my dress. I close my eyes and wish I was at home.
Or at Holt’s.
The pain that the website swore I had to endure comes roaring back like it knows it has a free pass. I can’t help but wonder if I had found another website that instructed me to ignore any discomfort if this hurt would go away.
I doubt it.
This bullshit is very, very real.
The doors swing open, and I’m met with a barrage of bodies. People scramble through the lobby like ants looking for a picnic blanket.
I step outside the elevator cart and freeze.
My entire body tenses as the leathery scent of Holt’s cologne billows my way. I allow myself three seconds to close my eyes and breathe it in. Then I lift my chin and march myself around the corner.
I have to stop this.
It will get easier.
I just need to— “Whoa!”
Something, or someone, hits me from the side. I go flying across the foyer, into a mailman, and onto the cold tile floor.
The impact breaks my spirit. All of the confidence I’d managed to muster this morning drains into the floor.
I try not to cry.
I sit on my knees on the floor and let my hair hang in my face. People scurry all around me, no one giving a second thought to the girl on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
I should stand and just go to my apartment. I’m not cut out for this. Not today.
“Let me help you up.”
I still at the words coming from behind me.
And at the voice.
I tell myself it’s a case of déjà vu and that Holt really isn’t standing behind me. It’s like his cologne a few moments ago and the car I thought was his that was parked on the street by the coffee shop this morning.
It’s wishful thinking.
I press my palm against the floor and stand. Dusting my hands off, I turn and gasp.
“What the …?” I stammer.
I think I’m seeing things. But at least I’m seeing good things.
Holt is standing in the middle of the crowd. He’s dressed in a black suit with a black-and-white-checkered shirt. His tie is my favorite. It’s the one he bound my hands with.
My eyes fill with tears. I’m afraid to blink. If I do, he might vanish.
But instead of disappearing into thin air, he moves closer.
“What are you doing here?” I whisper.
“Well, it turns out I have a very important matter to take care of today,” he says gently.
He stands tall and peers down at me. His eyes are so beautiful, so clear as they search mine.
I want to pull away from him. I don’t want him to read me because I know he can. With one look, he’ll know I’m a mess, and he’ll have the upper hand. But even though I want to do this, I want to hide from him, I don’t.
Being vulnerable is a strength, and I’m just figuring out its magic. But allowing myself to be open to feelings and experiences—both good and bad—is the only way to discover the powers that lie within me.
I used to think that hiding behind a cold facade made me strong. Untouchable. Impenetrable.
I was wrong. I only knew true strength when I gave myself a chance to love and be loved.
If Holt wants to see my pain, I’ll let him.
“Good luck with that,” I tell him.
My voice stays strong, and I’m glad for it. I’m all for him seeing how much he hurt me, but he needs to know he’s not going to walk all over me either.
“Can we go somewhere and talk?” he asks.
“Nope.”
His face falls.
“Aren’t you supposed to be meeting with Landry?” I ask.
He looks at his watch. “It’s probably just getting over right about now.”
My brows pull together as I try to make sense of what he’s saying. But as his gaze finds mine again, something tugs on my heart.
“Why aren’t you there?”
“I told you. I had an important matter to take care of today.”
I don’t want to ask. I don’t want to do this. And if I have to do it, I don’t want it to be here in the lobby of my building around people I’ll have to see every day.
I turn on my heel. “I have to go.”
“Blaire. Wait.”
I turn my back and march toward the doors. My lashes barely hold back tears.
I don’t think I can do this—not here. I don’t think I’m equipped enough to feel all of this kind of pain right now.
The website said to feel it all but not to let it overwhelm you. This might be overwhelming.
I blow out a breath.
My palms hit the door because I don’t wait for the revolving one as I shove my way outside. Holt is behind me. I feel his energy, but I don’t look back.
I don’t stop until I’m a half a block away and the crowd has thinned out a little. Only then can I press my back against a building and try to gather myself.
It takes all of two seconds for Holt to be standing in front of me.
“I was so fucking wrong, sweetheart,” he whispers. “I am so, so sorry.”
He’s standing so close to me that I can feel his energy rippling off his body. I shiver at the contact, wanting so badly to dive into his arms.
But I don’t. Because I don’t need to. I’m stronger than that.
“You could’ve called me about this,” I told him. “Your apology didn’t warrant an in-person exchange.”
He shrugs sheepishly. “I tried. You sent me to voicemail.”
“You could’ve left one.”
“I don’t really do voicemails. So much gets lost in the mix.”
“Well, I don’t really do men who think that they can just pop up in my life when it’s convenient for them. So if you’ll excuse me.” I give him a pointed look and head down the sidewalk again.
It kills me to walk away. It’s like a knife in my heartless cavity. Each step is like the blade is getting dug deeper and deeper into my soul.
I walk to the edge of the block and stop beneath a tree in an oversized box planter. It provides a little shade from the sun and acts like a blocker from the throngs of people.
Everyone except Holt.
“Stop running from me,” Holt says, standing in front of me again.
I refuse to look at him.
“I know I fucked up,” he begins but stops when I fire him a hard glare.
I put a hand on my hip. “I know you fucked up. I know that I could’ve been the best thing to ever happen to you. But you are too busy for that. So please, leave me alone.”
His face falls. “I deserve all of that. And I’ll stand here and listen to you berate me until you’ve said everything you need to say.”
“I don’t need to say anything to you.”
“Good. Then listen.” He shifts his weight. “I’m sorry, Blaire. This whole thing is my fault—all of it. I pursued you. I spoke to Oliver about you. I walked out and didn’t come back.” His voice breaks. “I left you when you needed me, and that’s the biggest mistake I’ve ever made.”
His face is riddled with pain. There are bags under his eyes, and his skin is pale.
I hate it. I hate that we have come to this.
“You hurt me,” I admit. “You broke my heart.”
“I know.”
“Do you know what it felt like to hear you tell Oliver that I required too much energy?”
His eyes light up. “That’s not what I said. That’s not what I meant.”
“Holt …”
“Hear me out.” He licks his lips. “I was telling him that you deserved so much more than I could give you. I didn’t know how … I didn’t know how to incorporate you into my life and guarantee you wouldn’t get hurt.”
“So you just hurt me outright instead? Genius move.”
“I didn’t know you were listening, or I would’ve been more careful.”
“But you walked out, and I was standing right in front of you.”
He takes a deep breath. His chest shakes as he inhales. “I promise you that I will never walk out on you again.”
“I know you won’t. Because I’m not there.”
He reaches for my hand, and I let him take it.
“Give me another chance,” he says. “Give me a chance because I don’t think we’ve ever had a real one.”