Page 2 of Collision

Chapter one

Present

Mikaela

A small groan slips from my lips as I double over, heaving for breath and clutching at my side. It’s been months since I’ve attempted to even walk for an hour without short breaks, so now, while I desperately try to gasp through the sudden urge to vomit, I’m beginning to regret my life choices.

Ahead of me, Jamie pounds the pavement - his breathing even despite the sweat coating his t-shirt and sticking it to his back - and the sun glistens on the golden hue of his skin. His legs are long, and lean muscles stretch and contract with each easy stride away from me. Years of recreational running have kept my brother trim and toned, with wide shoulders and a subtle strength, and when he glances back to me, for the slimmest second, his face is beaming with pure enjoyment. But his bliss disappears instantly.

“You not up for it, Mik?” Concern laces into his voice as he doubles back and immediately I feel it; that flame of pride that scorches me from the inside.

I am not weak.

“Perfectly up for it,” I spit through clenched teeth as I straighten and remove my hand from my side. The ache lingers, but there is no way I want to show him that. Looking like a broken doll in front of Jamie only leads to doting and sympathy, and I don’t need any more of either. “Besides, it’s doctor’s orders, remember? Exercise and fresh air. It’s good for the mind.”

“Mik -”

“Don’t, Jamie.” I yank at my hair, the tug burning my scalp as the band catches on my curls and snaps tiny strands in half, before tying it back again. We both know I am just trying to gain some precious breathing time, but he says nothing. Instead he just chuckles.

When Jamie laughs it’s always easy and light, even when he feels the complete opposite. It’s one of my favourite things about my big brother, watching the laugh lines crease around his eyes and his whole face crumple into a mix of happiness and ease. That and his bone crushing hugs and inability to cook a decent meal without burning the ass off of a pan (or his hand). He throws his hands in the air - palms to me in surrender - and backs away slowly, a wicked glint hiding behind the blue of his eyes, and I can’t help but smile.

“If this kills you, I’m telling Mom I told you to stop,” he chuckles, pulling a hand through the thick waves of his blond hair.

I huff out a laugh as I push forwards into a painful jog again.

“If it kills me, I’m haunting your ass for telling Mom.”

ThisisnotwhereI should be. I glance around at the few men who rush in with leather briefcases and the handful of women in high-quality suits and perfectly pointed Louboutin heels who waltz through the space, flashing ID cards at me without so much as glancing in my direction and I feel the distinct sensation of not belonging. It’s a gnawing, creeping, crawling sensation - like fire ants making a home of my skin.

My eyes drift over my skirt - too cheap and poorly fitted - and I brush myself down, crossing my ankles as I try to hide the threadbare flats I threw on in my rush. The lilac blouse I’m wearing does a little in lifting my outfit from disaster to simply drab, but it hangs in weird places where it used to sit perfectly; a constant reminder of who I once was.

I twist my fingers in the sleeve as I wait for something to happen - an email, or a phone call; anything that isn’t just sitting here while people pretend I do not exist - and begin my plan for the long, drawn out murder of my belovedGolden Boybrother whose assurances that I’d “fit right in” now feel like the words that enticed Eve to eat that God damned apple.

Around me, the day isn’t even beginning. The bustle and business of the morning doesn’t exist yet, and early risers mingle in small clusters in the open space of the office. Coffee cups from local cafés perch on the edges of glass topped desks, while people laugh and catch up, and check their emails for the morning ahead.The space is modern and sleek, all open except for two large offices - doubling as meeting rooms when needed - tucked into the back of the building, and a small divide has been set up between myself and the rest of the office in the form of simple, white bookshelves - spilling with new prints and signed editions made out to Jamie and his small team of editors.

It feels like hours pass as I sit and watch them all, tapping a pen against my notebook and waiting for the day to begin, but it can’t have been more than thirty minutes. Eventually, I move my attention to the computer - no sharp and snappy ideas and concepts bubbling to the surface of my subconscious and pushing into the world of creation - and begin to open and close different tabs and files.

Familiarising myself with this system won’t take me long at all.

As time continues to crawl past me, dragging out each painfully long minute into chasms of lost meaning, my mind wanders again and names and faces begin to mist and dance beneath the thin veil of the block in my mind. If I could cut them out and bind them to my pen, then at least I would have something to do.

When the sharp trill of the phone pulls me from my daydream the images dissipate and I reach to answer. The office isn’t open for another ten minutes, but surely it’s good practice to get ahead with calls for the day?

“Wilcox Writings. This is Mikaela speaking, how may I direct your call?”

“Oh! Now isn’t that just the sweetest little phone voice you have.” The familiar laughter of Benjamin Haston rings through the line and a tight coil twists in my stomach, knotting into a mess of pain and anger and nausea, and for a moment I contemplate hanging up.Jamie wouldn’t fire me for hanging up on Haston, would he?“How’s it going, Little Mik?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, an attempt to stem the automatic onset of a Haston induced headache, as I take a deep breath and will the nerves to roll off of me.

“Don’t call me that, Haston.” I roll my eyes as I swivel in my chair and listen to him chuckle.Infuriating. He is infuriating, even after all this time.“I’m not fourteen anymore.”

Ben

Even on the phone Mikaela Wilcox has a way of getting her meaning across without having to say the words.I’m not fourteen anymore and I like to imagine a world where you died in some horrific accident or were never born and didn’t ruin my life.It’s cute really, in anI really will kill you one daykind of way.

I cradle the phone between my cheek and my shoulder as I adjust my tie in the distorted reflection of the opening elevator doors and smile to myself.

There, behind a ridiculously large glass desk, her chair twisted to the side and her face away from me, is a vision. The lilac of her blouse is gentle and warming against the soft white of her skin and the spattering of freckles that runs up the side of her neck are peeking out from behind the long, golden curls that are pulled over one shoulder. She pinches the bridge of her nose and I can almost hear her whine that it’s my fault she has a headache again. She looks good. Skinnier than I remember, definitely a little uncomfortable, but still, she looksreallygood.

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