That phrase is way too loaded for me to even deal with right now, so I keep asking questions. If I keep asking questions, I’ll notice if he slips up. Maybe I’ll know if he’s lying…
“Is there any treatment?”
“Oh, yeah,” he grins, “medication.”
Colson reaches into his pocket and tosses a white bottle at me. It rattles as I catch it against my chest. When I turn it over, I see the sticker labeled with “Colson Lutz” next to his birthday, November 14. I examine the name of the drug printed below his name, filing it away to look up later.
“It’s never happened again. I just can’t drink,” he cracks a smile, “but that’s better than the alternative.”
I turn the bottle over in my hand, “Why—” I clear my throat, “why didn’t you say anything until now?”
“I didn’t even know where to start. I figured out pretty quick that you hadn’t told anyone, so I just let it ride.”
You could have said something, but you didn’t.
“And when you didn’t answer any calls or texts,” he continues, “I thought you just wanted me to leave you alone.”
Liar. You couldn’t leave me alone if you tried. Maybe it was just your plan to make me live in terror for the last three years.
But Colson’s right, I wanted him to disappear. I wanted to disappear.
“How was I supposed to explain any of that to you or anyone else?”
I examine the medicine bottle once more and toss it back to him, “Just like you are now,” my voice is even and I’m not shaking anymore.
Colson nods, glancing over the row of cars toward the building.
“I’m glad you told me,” I feel myself continue to relax, “even after all this time.”
It’s not like I can forget what happened even if Colson apologizes, even if there’s an explanation—albeit a bizarre one. But, right now, I just need a way to move forward. And this is the first shred of anything resembling that. I don’t know what to say, so I just stand there trying to process the onslaught of information Colson just unloaded onto me.
“Anyway, sorry for dumping all this on you in the middle of the parking lot after work,” Colson takes a deep breath, “I didn’t do it to make you feel sorry for me.”
I arched my brow and stare at him for a few moments, “I don’t.” Then, to my utter shock, I smile.
“You know,” Colson glances down at the asphalt, “I’ve missed that look.”
“Which one?”
“The fuck around and find out one.”
“Well,” I snicker, turning my keys over in my hands, “some things never change.”
“I just wanted you to know that I’m not some serial killer.”
I lean against my car door and shift my eyes to the side, “Isn’t that what someone would say if they were a serial killer?”
Colson takes a step toward me, but I keep my eyes on his boots, only looking up once they stop, “That depends, have you written your book yet?”
He remembered.
“And are you angry enough at me that you made me the killer?”
I laugh and shake my head, brushing off his question that’s so horrifyingly accurate. He’s older, like I am now, but so many things about him are the same; the way he stands, the way he squints his eyes ever so slightly and runs his tongue along the inside of his mouth when he’s thinking.
“OK,” Colson straightens up, “I’m assuming you’d have told me to fuck off by now if you really wanted to, so can we start over? Let me buy you lunch tomorrow?”
But I still can’t shake the bad memories and eerie feelings, “IM me when you’re free and I’ll sit with you out there,” I nod at the picnic tables on the side of the building.
I don’t want to remain a scared little mouse hiding in my office. I’ll go crazy. Besides, it seems like there’s still a part of him that’s still the person I remember. Maybe if I keep talking to him—in a public place where everyone can see—I won’t feel like I’m constantly looking over my shoulder. Maybe things can go back to how they were before. Maybe there’s a chance he can be…normal…
Colson peers over the cars at the pin oak and then turns back to me, “It’s a date,” he winks, “Honeybee.”
Did he really just say that?
Colson backs away from me a few steps and then turns to start back across the parking lot, giving me one last glance as he goes.
“It’s not a date!” It’s all I can think to shout at the back of his head as he strolls away.
“Yes, ma’am!” his voice booms in return.
I watch him for another minute before he disappears through the glass doors.
“For Christ’s sake...” I mutter as I turn and tug on the door handle.
Mumbling to myself, I climb into the driver’s seat and slam the door. Gripping the top of the steering wheel with both hands, I let my forehead fall against my knuckles and slowly shake my head back and forth. I take a deep breath and, suddenly, I feel a tightness in my chest. But, this time, it’s spurred by a memory and not by sheer terror.
“I’ll always find you, Brett, whether you want me to or not.”
