Unexpected, like they always chose to be, the tears sprang up and slid out of my eyes, trailing down my cheeks, hot and familiar.
I'd been to counseling. So much counseling. I had spent so much on therapy that I could fund a village in a third world country for a decade with what I had dropped on psychology sessions and retreats and alternative medicines when the drugs made me feel worse.
Even after all of that, even with all the tools I had learned, the tears came with a fury, leaching all the moisture from my body, making it impossible to do anything but turn into a desert inside, until there was nothing else left.
Then I could breathe, wipe it away, jerk up my chin, draw up the gumption my father had always instilled in me, and move on.
A part of me was dying for the grief to stop someday. The other part, though, was horrified about what it would mean if that did happen. That I was over it. That I was okay. Because I never wanted it to be okay. I never wanted to move on, knowing that in doing so, I would be leaving so, so fucking much of myself behind.
So, for right now, the crying was okay. It was okay. And it would be okay for a while. Especially because they mostly managed to happen when alone, when no one was there to judge me for it, when no one was going to ask those impossible questions.
Hasn't it been long enough?
Don't you think you should have moved on by now?
Or maybe worse yet, the comments.
You should see someone.
You have a right to be happy.
This has gone on long enough.
I had heard it all until the crying got a little more under control.
It looked like I was moving on.
I wasn't, though.
And I was okay with that.
I knew I wouldn't be able to move on until I finished this chapter, until I put this story to bed.
I couldn't do that if I was prosecuted or buried in the woods somewhere.
So I needed to figure out what Michael knew, who he had hired, what they may or may not have on me.
Then I could change tactics, figure out a new way to get the job done.
With that thought in mind, I sniffled back my congestion, wiped away any tears clinging to my lashes, reversed out of my work parking lot, and made my way home, promising myself a glass of wine, a short soak, and then a decent night of sleep.
I would figure it all out in the morning.
I was one of those people.
The ones who were useless after eight p.m.
The ones who functioned amazingly at around five in the morning.
Cue the looks of disgust.
I had my parents to blame.
My father rose before dawn to bike eight to ten miles, then came home, showered, dressed, and made his way to work.
My mother had a similar schedule except she chose the indoor swimming pool year-round for her chosen exercise.
In turn, as the oldest, I mimicked their behavior until it became a habit of my own. My siblings took the other route, rarely ever getting up before noon on days when it could be helped.
I was someone who liked to be in bed before ten then got up at five-oh-one. There was no grumbling, no hitting the snooze button, no wishes for one more hour.
My eyes opened, and I was ready to go.
I milked that speed all day. Until the sun went down. That was when I started to fade. I was like one of those prayer plants that folded up when the light went away.
I took my wine into the bath, taking long sips as the nearly too-hot water soaked away the tension that had built in my system after the incident with the random guy.
The random hot guy.
The random hot guy who might have the power to alter my entire universe in the near future.
With a sigh, I climbed out of the tub, going through the rest of my nightly routine in a bit of a fog. Whether that was from tiredness or the anxiety that was crippling my brain--unfamiliar and more unsettling than I could have anticipated--I wasn't sure.
Never one to toss and turn, I lay awake for over an hour. Not compiling lists as I was known to do. Not thinking about ways to make my work life even more fulfilling. I didn't even mull over all the ways I would need to change how I was handling the Michael situation if he hired the kinds of people I was worried he may have hired.
Oh, no.
Nope.
I thought about dark eyes.
I thought about a stern brow.
I thought about thick lashes.
And a noble nose.
I thought about a thin, but strong body.
I thought about brows that said more than words did.
Lastly, I thought about his voice.