Page 57 of A World Without You
“Of course not,” I whisper, swallowing hard.
He crosses his arms, stroking his chin with his index finger and thumb while he studies me. I don’t know what to say or where to start but I know this is where the apology has to begin.
“Colin, I—”
“You’ve been breathing better?” he asks, stepping around the desk. I don’t miss the insinuation in his question. In fact, tears pool behind my eyes as he says it.
I don’t want to go back to the city. I can’t breathe there. I’m suffocated by concrete towers and expectations. But the air is different here. Here, I’m free.
That was what I told him, when I broke it off.
I swallow the bitter taste of the memory. “It turns out oxygen works the same wherever you are.” I try to smile, hoping he can see I want to make light of it so we can move through it without getting stuck in the muddy feelings of the past.
“But it does smell different,” I add, and he smiles.
At first, it’s small, just a quick upturn of his lips, and then it molds and moves into the smile of my dreams—the happiness and safety I used to feel and touch and taste. For a moment, the smile stays, and I smile back, wishing I could just leap into his arms. He’s right in front of me. His arms and his heart are achingly familiar yet entirely distant and untouchable.
“So you’re divorced?” he asks, clearing his throat.
“I am,” I answer pressing my lips together.
“You happy about it?” he asks, barely looking at me as he shuffles through the papers on the desk.
“Happy isn’t the right word, but I’m relieved.”
“Was he good to you?” The question throws me off guard but I answer it honestly.
“Sometimes.”
He nods, his jaw pulsing, as he leans against the desk. “Good. You deserved someone who was good to you.”
“Do you want to talk about everything?” I ask instead, and his smile vanishes. “Maybe not now and maybe not here. But we should talk.”
He rubs his brow and swallows what is clearly his irritated and witty comeback. “Talk about what?”
I sigh. “I need to tell you how sorry I am for everything that happened between us. I’m just...”
He stares at me, his posture so unmoving that I stop talking. His eyes, his shoulders, and even the lighting have grown cold. The twelve-inch Christmas tree lit up with colored lights and tinsel on the desk is the only thing offering any ounce of warmth and holiday cheer. One of the bulbs on the colored Christmas lights is twitching, and it’s hard not to think it’s because I am epically failing at this apology, but I continue anyway.
“I just need to apologize because—”
“And I have felt like I never wanted to see your face again,” he cuts in, jaw tight. It twitches at the hinge, and I know that’s because he feels like crying. I know this because I know him. Or I used to. “Yet here you are.”
“Colin...”
He holds up a commanding hand that silences me. “I don’t know how to look at you, Olivia, and notwantto talk to you.” He pauses long enough that I see his chin tremble, and I want to scream,talk to me. Please!“But I’m not ready to hear your apology.”
My chest caves in, and I will myself not to cry or tremble in his presence. “I’m—”
“Shh—” he hushes me. His brow twists. He almost continues to explain his feelings or berate mine, but he doesn’t. He just turns and walks to the other side of the desk. “Email me the notes. You can go.”
I step toward him, not letting him dismiss me. Each step is reminding me of the steps I took away from him five years ago, and I grab his arm. “Colin, please, hear me out.”
“Why, Olivia?” he nearly shouts, whipping around and creating a breeze created from his wrath.. “You know, I used to wonder what it’d be like to see you again. What I’d say. I was even thankful you lived on the other side of the mountains so I wouldn’t have to see this side of myself.”
His gray eyes are darkening moment by moment as the clouds roll in through the glass windows. He waits for me to respond. I’m terrified because I don’t know how to make it make sense. The things I see when I sleep. Everything that happened five years ago and everything that followed after. None of it makes sense, and the words I need to say won’t formulate in my brain, and even if they would, I don’t think he’d stand to hear it.
I take his hand in mine—he doesn’t hold it back. “I’m sorry sounds too weak. But I want you to know I am. I’m so, so sorry. I miss you every day. I’ve thought of you more than I care to admit.”
