Page 13 of Raise Up, Heart
Back in the office, Cole locks the door behind him and leans against it for a moment taking slow breaths, before rubbing his forehead with his hand. The bruise aches, and he presses it on purpose, trying to feel it, to know that he’s not dreaming. He doesn’t even know what he’s doing, or why. This thing—this idea that’s rooted in his mind—it’s impossible, and maybe Hannah is right. Maybe he should talk to someone.
Cole swallows, closes his eyes, and thinks of the night on the busy road, the thud of the body pushing him out of the way.Cole, hold still.He said ‘Cole.’ He knew exactly who it was he was pushing out of the path of the car. And his eyes, when Cole saw them in the glow of the phone, they were exactly the same.
Cole moves to his desk and sits down, takes another deep breath, and puts the palms of his hands down flat on the surface and gathers the courage. He takes the note from his wallet, unfolds it carefully, his fingers trembling, and he places the paper next to the list Damon had written out sometime in the two days before he died.
The list is hurried. The note is precise, solid, as though each letter was considered fully and drawn with distinct purpose. Cole studies them, side by side. He’s no graphologist, but the letters appear to be made in similar ways. The tail of the Gs are comparable, the vowels created in the same way, and Cole thinks that if the list had been written in the same meticulous manner, the handwriting would look like that of the note.
But it’s madness.
He shakes his head and steeples his hands in front of his mouth. The man by the side of the road—Cole goes over the moment again in his mind. It was dark, pitch black, he was shocked, and he’d hit his head, he can’t begin to be certain that what he’d seen was not just the product of his concussion.
And the stone heart on his pillow? The note? The most likely explanation is incredibly unpleasant to consider—the man who rescued him is now stalking him. Perhaps was stalking him even that night.
Cole crosses his arms on the desk and rests his head against them. He wants to cry. He wants to feel sad now that he’s come back to reality. Instead, he’s just hollow and tired, like the crazed grief and hope and frantic investigation of the last day is all that he’s made of, and now that it’s gone, he’s depleted, a shell.
He sits at his desk until the day has completely passed into night. He sits in the glare of the overhead lights and stares at the letters on the note, the letters on the receipt, and he spins the stone heart around on the desk, the clatter of it against the wood real and annoying. Cole runs his fingers over the surface, puts it into his pocket, and stands to leave.
First, he places the note and the receipt inside a book he keeps in the drawer of his desk. It’s a bound version of the Hardiest Hearts’ annual report, and he smooths the note and the receipt flat against page 19 before closing them there.
As he walks into the cold, autumn night air, he fondles the rock in his pocket. He’s almost to his car when Michael Saint John exits the building behind him.
“Boss!” he yells, laughing. “Wait up!”
Cole turns around and watches the tall, lanky man walk toward him. In the darkness, he looks about Damon’s height, and Cole rubs his fingers over his eyes, thinking,See? A lot of people can look like Damon in the dark.
He imagines that a lot of people mightfeellike Damon in the dark, too. Skin on skin. But he’s never been able to bring himself to act on his sexual needs that way, even though he’s considered it more than once.You don’t truly know how Damon would have felt in the dark, and you’ll never know,his mind helpfully supplies, so he’s twisted up inside, aching, and frustrated when Michael catches him.
“Hey, kid,” Michael says. It’s a joke between them. Michael, eight years older than Cole, calls him “boss,” or “kid,” and sometimes “boss kid,” and for some reason it always makes them both laugh. But Cole doesn’t laugh tonight. “You’re here late.”
“You, too,” Cole says. “What’s up?”
“All of that responsibility that you shuffled onto me today. Made me miss my date with Emily.”
Cole groans. “No, tell me you didn’t cancel.”
“Postponed,” Michael says.
“I’m sorry,” Cole says. “I didn’t even think that—”
“Why should you?” Michael says. “I’m your employee, not your friend. And, besides, I’m glad you trust me enough to take over when you need the help. I was happy to do it.”
Cole reaches out to shake Michael’s hand, and starts to say something about being glad he can trust Michael, too, when Michael grabs his hand and pulls him into a hug.
“You hang in there, boss kid,” Michael says. “I don’t know exactly what’s going on with you right now. But you’ve got my full support.”
Cole pats Michael’s back, allows himself to be held for a moment longer, and then Michael lets him go.
“So, I guess I might be a little bit your friend, after all,” Michael says, gripping his arm. “I worry about you, Cole. You take a lot on yourself, and Emily says lately you’ve been exhibiting… Well, we want you to be around for a long time. That’s all.”
Cole crosses his arms over his chest and smiles. He’s pleased, if confused, by this turn of events. He likes Michael, and he wishes that they were closer. Sometimes he misses having close friends. He’s got Emily, and he has his sister and his father, but after Damon died—well, making and keeping friends always seems so fraught.
“Thanks, Michael,” Cole says. “I’ll be okay. I’m just…” He shrugs.
“Remembering,” Michael fills in.
“Yeah.” Cole nods.
“I don’t know if you’re aware, but I lost my wife in a skiing accident,” Michael says. “It’s sudden and it’s senseless. I understand.”
