Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 47606 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 238(@200wpm)___ 190(@250wpm)___ 159(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47606 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 238(@200wpm)___ 190(@250wpm)___ 159(@300wpm)
If it happened at work, I would retreat to his office and sit in the wingback chair with the ottoman, which was there specifically for me. It was behind his desk, not in front of it, so I was protected. I would curl there, quietly, until I noticed him doing something wrong in Excel and would have to rise to fix the problem.
If it happened when we were not at work, I would go to his apartment in Bucktown and wrap myself up in the heavy quilt that was there for me on his overstuffed love seat next to the window, and I’d watch the snow fall in the winter and the city lights in summer.
If he was asleep, he’d stumble out of his bedroom, squint at me, give me the tilt-up of his head, an acknowledgment, and then go back to bed. If he wasn’t home, when he walked in, he’d offer me half of whatever takeout he’d brought home or tell me I was going to love whatever he was planning to make. On the rare occasion he brought a date home, he would apologize, call for a car for them, and then flop down on the couch facing the TV and find a movie.
“I didn’t mean to ruin your night,” I would whisper from the love seat.
“You didn’t,” he would lie, and without looking at me, would pat the seat beside him.
I would always move fast, wanting to be close, but not enough to touch. The comfort was in being in his space, not being held. At least that was the way it started.
The last time it happened, I wedged myself against his shoulder, and like he’d been doing it for years, he lifted his arm and tucked me in tight. I had been momentarily terrified that I’d made a mistake, initiated contact I didn’t need or want, but instead of the jolt of terror running through me, there came an almost overwhelming feeling of calm, followed quickly by warmth. The heat that rolled off the man was staggering, but since I normally shivered my way through my panic attacks, that was welcome as well.
It was the weirdest thing, and there was no accounting for it, but when I told my therapist, he said it was a good thing. Trusting anyone was an act of faith for me, and if I could do it with one person, it meant others would follow. And he’d been right. Over the years, more followed, and I could hug people now and be around them one-on-one, but still, I had to talk myself through certain situations, and sometimes, like with Mr. Somerset scaring me earlier, even being near someone bigger than me, who could overpower me, would set me off. The only person who’d never, ever, tripped an alarm was also the one person who was constantly in my space.
My reaction to Colton Gates made no sense, but I was thankful for him every day. And now he’d know what a coward I was, and I hoped he’d find it in his heart to forgive me.
An SUV was waiting for us, and I was surprised because normally we took the L unless we were on our way to court, rolling or carrying a lot of materials. We also got a car if we had a witness with us. Didn’t want them to think we didn’t have the resources to care for them. But when it was just us going somewhere, we usually took the train. His getting an Uber was strange.
“Why?” I asked, sitting beside him in the back seat.
“Because I want to get there fast,” he replied grouchily.
We were both quiet for several minutes.
“What if you don’t like me after you’ve heard the things I’ve done?”
He was scowling when he turned his head from the window to watch me. “You mean the things that were done to you?”
“How do you know what was—”
“Don’t be an idiot,” he warned me. “You took me with you so I could meet your therapist because he wanted to put a face—my face—to a name. I was sitting there when he said that your relationship with me was not healthy.”
I glanced away, remembering how distressed I’d been when that analysis had been shared. What saved my relationship with Dr. Butler and allowed me to keep seeing him was that he immediately amended what he said and made clear that for me personally, trusting anyone was a step toward healing.
“Mr. Gates is—”
“Please call him Colton,” I had insisted.
He’d cleared his throat. “You are dependent on Colton,” he’d explained, “but he is not dependent on you outside of the office, which makes this all right.”
And when I’d thought about that for a moment, it was true.
He had old Army buddies, he had friends from law school, he had the guys he played baseball with on a league every spring. His parents lived in La Grange, and his sister, Brooke, lived in Lincoln Park with her husband and two kids. Everyone loved him. He was a loyal and concerned friend, the one who showed up to help you move, took you to rehab, and came when you called in the middle of the night. He was a loving son, a doting brother, and the uncle the kids loved best because he treated them like people, not kids. I knew that because normally I was there when he was watching them. His sister preferred that I was in attendance because I made certain the movies they watched were age appropriate, that all the food groups were represented during their meals, and that suitable safety equipment was put on—goggles, for instance, when handling an acetylene torch—before anything was begun that involved fire, heights, or driving really, really fast.