I suck in several deep breaths, feeling lost in the middle of the students who pass me talking excitedly about classes, friends and what they did over the weekend. They pass me by and have no idea that I’m stuck in my personal hell. With the sounds of gunshots ringing in my ears and my mother’s screams outside the door.
My bag falls off my shoulder and I let it drop to the ground. I learned how to control the panic attacks in therapy. I focus on the rhythm of my breath, the beat of my heart and the ground below me. I breathe in and hold it for a count of three, then let it out. The artificial breathing pattern slows the rate of my heart and the sense of panic recedes a little. Finally I look around, suddenly aware that I’m standing in the middle of the courtyard gasping for breath.
I pick up my backpack and force myself to start walking. I’m just starting to get my life back on track so I can’t allow myself to go back there. Maybe I’m being foolish to think that I’m ready to come back but it’s a fallacy that I need to get me through each day. Next year, I’ll be in class all day and doing homework all night. I’ll need to be focused.
That day has already stolen everything from me. If let it, it’ll steal any hope I have for the future. I can’t allow that to happen. I don’t want to look back on my life and think of all the things I didn’t do and never had. That’s why I’m so determined to go back and finish my degree. One and a half semesters and I’ll be done with my undergraduate degree. Then I can apply to veterinary school. Now all I need to do is figure out where to get the money for all this schooling.
I tilt my face up into the wind and make a promise. Almost there, Dad. I’ll get back here and finish what I started.
No matter what I have to do.
CHAPTER TWO
TANK
She’s not here.
I’m in my lawyer's office for the third time this month, squashed into a hard wooden chair that's too small for my six foot five inch frame. It still feels weird to say that, my lawyer, like I'm some kind of big shot now or something. But it's true. I have a lawyer and an accountant.
I also have a huge stack of money sitting in a trust with my name on it.
Shifting as much as I can in the narrow seat, I lean back and avert my gaze from the brunette currently sitting behind the secretary’s desk. She’s beautiful but she’s not her. She looks like she’ll faint if our eyes meet one more time, although to be fair I have been glaring at her for the past ten minutes. There’s not much else in the room to look at.
There's an older woman with a cane and a small white dog in her purse that yaps every time someone enters or leaves the room. A middle-aged man in the corner mumbles under his breath while working on a crossword puzzle. A guy in a suit sits a few feet away typing into a laptop.
Waiting rooms are not my favorite places. No matter how hard they try to be comfortable, they never get it quite right. Inevitably they are either too cold or too warm. The piped in music is too loud or it's eerily silent. Everyone is staring at everyone else and pretending not to. Since I'm usually the biggest one in the room, you guessed it. Most of the attention is directed at me.
There’s only one reason I’ve been voluntarily coming here for the past few weeks to sit in uncomfortable chairs all while paying for the privilege.
To see her. The one person that makes all the noise in my head subside.
And now she’s not even here.
The outer office door bursts open and a gust of cold air sweeps through the room, stirring the little dog into a yapping frenzy.
“I’m sorry. Sorry.” A young woman rushes past, a flurry of blond hair and apologies, and places her bag on the floor behind the secretary’s desk. I sit up straight, watching. The brunette smiles at her with genuine affection. They whisper back and forth before the other woman gets up and walks down the hallway leading to the offices.
The blonde glances over at me before tucking a few of the stray hairs around her face behind her ears. It takes her a few minutes to get settled. She moves a few things around on the desk and then pulls a bottle of water from her oversized bag. She’s doing an admirable job of appearing busy and engrossed in whatever’s on her computer screen but a few minutes later, she looks at me again.
Usually this kind of thing annoys the hell out of me, but for some reason, with her, I don't mind. Maybe it’s the madcap cloud of blond hair or the big, wounded gray eyes. I’m not sure what it is, but there’s something about this girl. Something that keeps me coming back week after week. I think it’s because she never smiles.
“Don’t worry I’m still here.”
She lets out a surprisingly crude snort. “Like I could miss you. And I wasn’t looking for you.”
“Okay, okay.” I lean back and make a show of spreading my arms over the backs of the chairs next to me. I’m a big dude and I have a wingspan like a giant. Her eyes follow the movement but when she sees me watching, she turns up her nose a little and goes back to her typing.
I chuckle a little. She doesn’t like me much and for some reason, it amuses me. I stare at her openly because I know when she notices she’ll do that little huffing sound again. She's a pretty little thing. Elegant. The kind of girl who clutches her pearls when I get too close. The nameplate on her desk reads Emma Lynn Shaw. Even her name is prissy as hell.
Despite that, there’s something about her that I find compelling.
The phone on her desk rings and she answers, her voice a soft whisper in the quiet room. She nods and then places the phone carefully back on the hook.
"Tanner Marshall?" She calls out, looking around at the other people in the waiting room.
The little dog gives an irritated yip. No one else even looks up. Finally her gaze lands on me. I stand and walk over to her, stopping right in front of her desk. It amuses me that she pretends not to know my name. I've been here every Monday for the last five weeks. Surely she knows who I am by now. She also knows that I hate to be called by my legal name. I've told her to call me Tank every time. I’ve also asked her to dinner every time.
Then again, she looks like the kind of girl who wouldn't remember a guy like me.