I’ve only ever been kind to him. I even gave him another chance after he was such a dick to me in college, only for me to suffer terror and emotional abuse at his hands. Why can’t I just rage out and live a normal life out of spite? I thought I was doing better, at least until the meeting today.
But I let the intrusive thoughts win. I let my guard down and retreated to the good memories that still exist in the far reaches of my brain, to the point where I sat there staring at him like a starstruck fangirl.
You fucking idiot!
I decide to stop admonishing myself as soon as I walk out to the parking lot at the end of the day. I need to refocus and gather my nerves before I humiliate myself further. This is always the moment I relax and let my mind start to wander, on the walk to my car, back to guaranteed safety, maybe even to a bike trail for a ride.
I reach for my keys and I sigh with disappointment. I rode yesterday and didn’t plan to today, but today is when I need a good endorphin rush. I need to feel the wind in my face and work out all the pent-up stress settling in my back and shoulders. I grab my door handle, muttering and whining to myself about how it’s a beautiful day and I’m missing out on a good bike ride.
“Brett?”
My eyes fly open and I go rigid, “Jesus!” I jump in fright, catching myself against the door.
There’s no mistaking the deep baritone voice behind me. I spin around to see Colson standing between the bumpers of my Tahoe and the black Infiniti parked next to me.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” He holds his hands out in front of him, eyes wide and mouth open.
I stand motionless, my eyes darting around like pinballs.
Fight or flight, still an option.
I become acutely aware of the brick wall at my front bumper and the fact that Colson is blocking my only path of egress into the parking lot. But the threat of embarrassment wins again and I just stand there gripping the door handle with white knuckles. We look at each other, waiting to see who will have the courage—or audacity—to speak first.
“Sorry,” Colson begins, lowering his arms to his sides, “I just saw—”
“What the fuck are you doing?” I bark, cutting him off and losing my fear for an instant.
Apparently, I’m not so traumatized that I can’t cuss him out in the middle of the parking lot. Maybe I’ll die with some dignity, after all, rather than a sniveling pile in the dirt as I feared.
“Um,” Colson pauses, biting his bottom lip like he’s trying not to laugh, “I saw you walking out and I wanted to catch you before you left.”
I look him up and down. He’s not wearing his gun, his body armor, or his duty belt chock full of other deadly implements. He’s otherwise dressed head to toe in his usual ensemble of black boots, black pants, black t-shirt, and black watch.
I squint one eye suspiciously, “Why?”
Colson shrugs and plants his hands on his hips before glancing around the parking lot, “You actually looked at me this morning instead of acting like I don’t exist, so I figured it was a good sign.”
My cheeks flush with his confirmation of my worst fear—they saw me. Maybe it’s not my worst fear, but the fact that he’s calling me out for it makes me want to melt into a greasy spot on the asphalt.
“And I really just need to tell you something,” he hesitates for a few moments, “I’m sorry for what I did to you.”
Oh, God...
My face falls and I press my mouth together, my chin trembling while tears pool in my eyes, threatening to spill over any second.
Can we please not do this? Especially in the middle of the parking lot at work…
Every muscle in my body feels like it’s about to shatter. I still want to forget it all. I never will, but that doesn’t mean I’m not content in spending the rest of my life trying. I take a breath, tamping down any emotion that threatens to expose itself, and shake my head. Maybe if I dismiss it like it’s nothing, he’ll accept it and disappear for another three years.
“I’m not doing this to get you to talk to me again.” Colson’s voice is firm and determined, “I need to tell you what happened because you deserve to know.”
I relax slightly, but I still hold fast to the door handle of my SUV, “OK.”
Colson stares down at the white paint between the cars, “It’s a sleep disorder,” he begins. “After I did what I did to you, I was so freaked out that I went to the hospital. The doctor didn’t really believe me until he asked if I had any sleep partners who could corroborate it. And I said no, I don’t, because I tried to kill my girlfriend last night and that’s why I was there.”
My stomach drops and the adrenaline rises.
Don’t fucking cry. Get a grip. Pull it together.
I clear my throat and try to swallow the lump, “Then what happened?”
Surprisingly, it’s better when I speak, like it’s a distraction from the involuntary neural responses bombarding me.
Colson also seems relieved when I start asking questions, “Normally, you have paralysis during your REM cycle. But when you don’t, you act out your dreams—or nightmares. It’s like sleepwalking, except when you wake up, you’re completely lucid and you can remember everything.”
“OK,” I furrow my brow, “so, what were you dreaming about?”
He doesn’t miss a beat, “The guy that murdered my sister.”
I stare at him, my mouth half open, having no idea how to respond. Dallas is his sister. He has another one? I suppose I didn’t get to find out much about him before everything went to hell back then.
“Yeah,” Colson scratches the back of his head, “it happened years ago and it was…a lot, obviously. Anyway, after that, I started having nightmares, talking in my sleep, and then later the sleepwalking started. But nothing like this.”
“Do you know what causes it?” If I keep talking, everyone will remain calm, and everything will be OK.
Colson shakes his head, “Genetics, depression, drinking, lack of sleep, PTSD…” Colson grins, “basically everything I’d been doing since high school. And after I met you, I thought everything was getting better, until—” he stops himself, not wanting to say anymore.
Everything was getting better…
