60 Elena
Elena
He’s standing right next to her now. She wants to push him away, to give him a good shove because who does he think he is, trying to intimidate her? Why is she again in that gray area between what she wants and what she has to do to get it?
Cal looks like he’s studying an insect under a magnifying glass.
He doesn’t say anything, just looks at her.
They lock eyes, and she pushes at his chest. He grabs her arm.
The violence of it rattles her. He is not going to let her go.
She jerks toward him shoulder-first, but he doesn’t even budge. His face is neutral.
“Get the fuck away from me,” she says with venom she doesn’t have to dig deep for.
She half turns away from him, but there’s not much room.
She’s pinned between him and a corner of glass windows.
She has a ridiculous thought that if she can find something sharp, something heavy, maybe she can smash the glass, get out, then run away.
She sees his reflection in the window. Soberly, as if he wishes things didn’t have to be this way, he shakes his head. “It’s nothing personal,” he says.
And then, before she can react, before she can even wonder what exactly isn’t personal, something cracks against her skull.
She feels an orchestra of pain reverberating through her head.
It consumes her. She feels herself wobble.
And then she looks back at him. He’s holding something up, raising it over his head.
The familiar object is arresting, the way it catches the light.
That’s the last thought she has before the pain comes again, this time following a thud that she hardly registers.
She thinks of nothing else as the room goes dark.