I struggle for calmness, all the while trying to assess the situation and determine how he needs me to react for this to have the best outcome.
It doesn't stop me from flinching when he sits beside me on the bed, the mattress dipping under the weight of him.
There’s no way I can hide the fact that I’m terrified, but as I watch his face, he doesn’t seem to be thrilled at my fear. He doesn’t seem… anything.
His face is calm, but I still cringe, terrified even more when he lifts his hand and brushes my hair off my face.
He doesn't smile.
He doesn't placate me with soft words.
He doesn’t threaten me nor ask anything of me.
I don't know what any of this means. I wasn’t trained for situations like this. My parents never let me out of their sight, or the sight of my bodyguards, long enough for something like this to happen.
Maybe he’s an obsessed fan of my father. That’s what I have to think right now because the alternative would be catastrophic. If this man took me to hurt my father, things are not going to end well for me.
“Hi,” I whisper to him, my voice trembling.
He doesn't say anything, and that scares me more than if he were yelling in my face.
He seems familiar, but I'm unable to place him. I see so many people. I meet so many people. Every day there's a new face in my life. Years ago, I had the ability to remember everyone I crossed paths with, but as time went on, those numbers grew exponentially. My brain just couldn't handle storing all that information any longer.
“Do I know you?” I whisper, but he doesn't answer.
He just stares down at me like I'm a science experiment or a bug. It’s as if he's curious about my existence.
“Have we met?”
His lips form a flat line, the first sign of any emotion from him as he continues to stare at me. At first I think he doesn't like the questions, and then it hits me.
He doesn't like the fact that I don't know who he is.
I'm good at assessing people, and it's clear that this man is irritated.
He fully expects me to be able to place him, and I try. I dig deep. I run through the many faces I see on a daily basis, and I have to swallow to prevent a gasp from escaping my lips.
The surf shop. This is the man that tried to engage me in conversation while I was at the beach earlier.
The interaction lasted less than thirty seconds, and yet somehow, he thinks that gives him a right to take me, to have me.
I dig a little deeper into my memory, thinking back further, considering that maybe that was the first time I saw him but not the first time he saw me.
I can't recall a single other moment in time where I would have seen him.
He looks different now.
He's not some bro jock in swim trunks without a shirt on, thinking he’s going to score some girl.
The golden skin of his throat peeks out of the dress shirt he has unbuttoned at the collar.
His hair is no longer windswept like it was at the surf shop.
He looks respectable.
He doesn't look like a beach bum.
He's even more handsome now than he was the first time I saw him.