Page 95 of Courage, Dear Heart
I invite myself into his office and with each step I take closer to him, a transformation happens. His shoulders drop, his jaw relaxes. He opens his hands and flexes his fingers. His gaze goes from my face to the still ringing phone in my hand. His phone.
I show it to him in my open palm. “You forgot to take your phone. It was still plugged in on my nightstand.” His phone battery had died sometime during the night and he plugged it to charge early this morning.
He pulls me into his chest and kisses the top of my head, then steps back. Takes the phone without looking at who’s calling him and puts it in his pocket. His gaze goes back and forth between me and the door. And if I were a gambling woman, I’d bet that the man I heard before is his father and the building he was talking about is my building.
“Thank you. You didn’t have to come all the way here.”
I try to smile, but it falters. “I figured you need it for work. And it gave me an excuse to see your office and you.”
He tucks a lock of hair behind my ear, the simple gesture familiar and comforting, but something about it feels...off. Normally, when Elliott does this, there’s warmth in his touch, a kind of quiet intimacy that leaves me breathless. But now, his hand barely lingers, and the easy, playful spark I’ve come to expect from him is missing.
“I’m happy to see you.” His voice is flat. “And any other day I’d give you a tour and introduce you to my coworkers, but today is a little crazy.”
His words are polite, his tone careful, but his eyes dart away from mine, glancing at the open door behind me. Heseems distracted, nervous even, like he’s trying too hard to say the right thing. Gone is the man who always makes me laugh, who teases me and Jamie with that irresistible grin. In his place is someone distant and polished. Is this because of what I overheard? Must be.
“That’s okay.” I watch him closely now, trying to read what’s written between the lines. “I understand. I should have called the office instead and asked for you. I’ll go.”
“It’s fine. I’m glad you stopped by. I’ll walk you out.” His hand goes to my elbow like he’s trying to rush me out of here.
“You don’t need to.” My instincts are on high alert now, and I can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong.
“I do. I really do.” He takes my hand and stops at the door, looking down the hall, the same direction the other man disappeared into.
A man’s loud voice reaches us from somewhere deeper in the office. His reaction is immediate—a sharp intake of breath, a flicker of something in his eyes, and then his mask is back in place. He tugs my hand, and we walk down a wide carpeted hall flanked by offices and cubicles until we’re standing in front of a bank of elevators. He pushes the call button several times.
The Elliott I know doesn’t act like this. He’s warm, attentive, and completely present when we’re together. This version of him—guarded and tense—makes my chest tighten. I want to ask him what’s wrong, to push past this wall he’s thrown up between us. But something in his posture, in the way his hand grips mine just a little too tightly, stops me.
The elevator door opens.
“I can go from here. You go back to work.”
He pulls me inside. “What? And miss my chance to kiss you goodbye outside? No way.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
His tension decreases with each floor the elevator adds between us and his office. He pulls me closer, kisses my forehead. Smiles. And this is the face of the Elliott I know. Not the man I saw inside his office minutes ago. His father, it seems, has a bigger hold on him than even Elliott knows. It reminds me of something one of Jamie’s therapists told me. When one suffers a trauma as a child, a part of them stays trapped in that moment of their life. They’ll grow and become adults and function well or not. But there will always be a part of them that’s stuck in that moment, unless they get some kind of help. Be it therapy, learning to forgive and let go, or a lot of soul-searching. I guess this is true for all of us. No one goes through life without some bumps and hurts. But while some get scratches, others get deep wounds that never completely heal. I hope Elliott got the former and not the latter.
The elevator dings and the doors open. He takes my hand once we reach the ground floor, and we walk outside. He guides me down the street until we’re out of sight of the building. “Do you want me to call an Uber for you?”
“No. I drove. I’m parked across the street.”
“I’ll walk you to the car.”
“There’s no need. You need to get back to work. You were already late this morning.”
He shrugs. “I don’t really have set hours.”
“Still. I’m fine. My car is right over there.” I point down the block.
He hesitates. I know he wants to ask me what I heard but also doesn’t want to give anything away in case I heard nothing. I could say something. But I don’t. A small part of me is still on guard. I trust him. I really do. But I don’t trust anyone else at his job. And what I heard sounded like an ultimatum. And people do stupid things when under pressure.
I go on my tiptoes and cup his face with both hands. Kiss him. A candid kiss at first. But it becomes heated when I part my lips for him. He accepts my invitation and kisses me deeply, harder. Pulls me closer to him. Our bodies flushed together. He kisses me with desperation. And hunger. Like he’s trying to hold onto something that’s slipping through his fingers.
Cars honk and a loud whistle cuts through the air. We separate, out of breath, mouths red and a little swollen. “Go. I’m fine.”
He kisses my forehead and walks back to the building.
I watch him go.
I’m not fine.
