One Year Ago
There’s a technique trauma therapists use called systematic desensitization therapy. It’s used to treat PTSD and anxiety disorders. The goal is to change the way a person responds to a situation that triggers fear and anxiety. Technically, I won’t learn about this until much later.
But this is what I’m doing at work without even knowing it.
9:32—Colson makes his first round past my office. The first time it happened, it was terrifying. It should’ve been Nate walking past my door. It’s always Nate walking past my door. Sometimes he even stops to say hello. So, that’s what I did—I called hello out the door when I heard the heavy footsteps and jingling of keys.
But it wasn’t Nate.
And as soon as I glanced up from my computer, I saw Colson’s dark auburn hair, tattoos, and pale blue eyes staring back at me. He spun as he rounded the corner, walking backward a few steps as he continued. He didn’t say anything. He just looked at me with his sweet face that probably would’ve made any other woman melt, but it nearly gave me an aneurysm.
Now, I’ve sharpened my senses and I can hear Colson’s keys jingle from his body armor as soon as he gets halfway down the hall. His radio may or may not crackle, so I can’t count on that. He comes from the east end of the hall, and my door opens north, so I can’t see him approach.
After that first day, he never turned to look in my doorway after rounding the corner. Ever.
Now, I just glare at the back of his head. And I only start to do that after one month of watching him walk the same route every day. Before that, I kept my door shut and cowered at the sound of his keys and footsteps outside my door.
But I decided I need a goal. If I can concentrate on my work, get Zen, and keep myself calm as Colson walks by, I reward myself with one of the Dove chocolates I keep in a jar on the corner of my desk. I do this for a good month, until I decide I don’t want to be a total shut-in anymore. I even start to get excited about him walking by because it means I can eat a piece of chocolate.
I’m Pavlov’s fucking dog.
11:30 to 12:30—Colson, Alex, and Nate always take lunch at the same time. They’re always in the north break room. But once it gets warmer, in mid-April, they mix things up and sometimes sit at the picnic tables under the pin oak on the west side of the building. I avoid the north break room during lunch just to be safe.
2:10—Colson makes his second round past my office. But, this time, he approaches from the north end of the hallway and walks south toward my office.
For two months, I always make sure to close my door after lunch. At 2:00, the adrenaline starts building until I hear his keys and footsteps round the corner, fading as they move east. I start eating more chocolate at this time, too, with the same effect.
Until, one day, in March, I forget to close my door.
I’m rushing to complete paperwork for a maintenance appointment the next morning when I hear the ominous jingle of Colson’s keys. But instead of drawing even more attention to myself and looking like a scared little rabbit, I do nothing. I sit, frozen, staring at my computer screen and watch as his fuzzy silhouette gets bigger and bigger until…
Nothing happens.
He rounds the corner, disappears down the dim hallway, and I’m still alive. I’m still breathing normally, and I do it without chocolate. But, still, I eat one anyway. Because I like chocolate.
11:00 on the first Thursday of every month, Conference Room B—The monthly safety meeting where I sit around a board room table with Dave, Eric, Abby, and the rest of the security detail. Some of them sit at the table, some flank the walls in loose chairs.
For the most part, I don’t speak or have any responsibilities during these meetings. The extent of my activity is usually sitting next to Abby and trying to ignore everyone else until Dave and Eric start the meeting. Once it does, I try to focus on whoever is doing the talking, but inside I’m a wreck. I know Colson is watching me. Each time I make note of where he’s sitting, but then I begin to wonder whether it’s better not to know. Maybe then I won’t obsess over which side of my body he’s staring at.
Once the meeting is over, I’m petrified Colson will try to speak to me. It’s exhausting. But, like every other time, nothing happens.
Then, one day, during the May meeting, I let my mind wander. Colson’s like a little house spider in the corner of the living room. He minds his own business, lives his life in his cobwebs, and snatches other little bugs creeping around the house. Even if you’re afraid of spiders, you don’t really care about the little house spider because it’s so quiet and unassuming, it would be absurd to kill it.
But Colson Lutz is not a tiny house spider. He’s a six-foot four grown man who wears body armor and carries a gun. But he hasn’t tried to speak to me since that first day I saw him in January. He also isn’t stupid. What can he do to me here that wouldn’t end horribly for him? I get too comfortable, too complacent, as if his arrogance is contagious. Which is why, today, I make a mistake.
I decide to look at him.
He’s sitting in one of the maroon chairs against the floor-to-ceiling windows, directly opposite my place at the table. All it takes is for me to shift my gaze and look up. I don’t even have to turn my body. When I focus, it’s like I’m back in Dr. Selter’s Popular Fiction class, looking through a portal at Colson leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, staring straight ahead with his head cocked and the light hitting his eyes so they look like glowing gemstones.
Unbothered.
Except, now, he’s older. His muscles are more defined and, for some reason, his hands look bigger. They shouldn’t. That doesn’t happen, does it? Maybe it’s because of the size of his watch or his tattoos. His jawline is sharper and his eyes more striking, lined with the type of intensity that can only be acquired from years of being exhausted and jaded.
Or traumatized.
It reminds me of the same look—the same darkness—that Bowen has. Maybe that’s why I can’t stop looking at Colson. But where has he been? What’s he been doing all this time? I never wanted to know until now.
I’m so focused on him that I don’t realize he’s staring right back at me. Once I see him, a jolt shoots through my chest and I look away.
Colson glances at Alex, who’s sitting on his left, also looking at me with a shadow of a smirk. Colson’s mouth curls at the corner. He saw me. He fucking saw me. And so did Alex. Probably because of Alex.
Brett, you idiot! Oh my god…what have I done?
Now they’re both looking at me.
My heart races as I stare intently at Eric in the front, droning on about renovations, keypads, and gate repairs. I can’t hear anything. I feel like I’m underwater. And am I sweating? I feel like I’m sweating.
I sit, frozen, trying to melt into the leather chair. I should be used to this by now—low-key freaking out in the middle of my workday. Out of habit, I lift my pen sitting on my notebook. What the hell am I going to write? Nothing. I just want to look busy, but I still look like an idiot. There’s no way I’m looking anywhere except the front of this god-forsaken room until this is over.
God, when will this meeting end?
After such a humiliating mistake, my world instantly gets even smaller. What will be the least mortifying; shutting the door and letting Colson know he got to me, or keeping it open and knowing he’s looking at me, thinking about how he caught me staring at him? I split the difference and hide in Abby’s office eating candy until 2:10, when I hear Colson’s keys and his footfalls on the carpet.
I didn’t think this incident—or the past couple months in general—would’ve taken such a toll on my pride. I spent the last three years organizing my life in such a way that I’m never caught off-guard. I have specific routines, healthy coping mechanisms, a good—albeit sometimes faraway—support system, I stay active, I eat well, I get enough sleep, and I even managed to unexpectedly find Bowen.
But then, one day, I walk into work and my entire world comes crashing down as soon as I see Colson’s face. But isn’t that what tormentors do—show up when you least expect it? Don’t they decide to show up out of the blue and wreck everything? If Colson’s not going to wreck me physically, he’s going to wreck me mentally. And it’s not fucking fair.
What did I ever do to him?
