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“Scarlett,” I call, “it’s Cohen, from work. Are you okay?”
Just as I’m starting to feel completely asinine for coming here—hell, she could have company, she could have a man in there with her—footsteps sound from the inside. Nervously I step back, feeding a hand through my hair as I wait.
The sound of the chain sliding open followed by the lock twisting has my heart fucking pounding. The door swings open and Scarlett is there, wearing the same clothes she had on last night. She blinks lazily at me, and I know then I’ve woken her up. Through a yawn she catches with the back of her hand she says, “Cohen. Is everything okay?”
The phone rings again and at the same time, our eyes drop to the purse on the floor at her feet. She looks back to me, holding the door with one hand, smoothing her other along her forehead. After she acknowledges the ringing phone, she seems bothered. Anxious, even.
I don’t like that.
“I wanted to make sure your headache was gone and that you’re OK getting to work.”
A soft smile curls her pouty lips and I’m close to returning the expression but the phone rings again. I haven’t returned a sweet smile in… years. I look back down at the phone then study her uneasy expression, which she’s trying to mask by fiddling with a stray strand of honey hair, then touching her neck.
“You aren’t answering?” I question, not sure if that’s exactly what I want an answer to but knowing I have the right to nothing. I likely shouldn’t even ask.
But the phone rings again and she shifts on her feet, so visibly uncomfortable that it spurs me into action.
“May I come in?”
She blinks at me, brows cinched in confusion. But she pulls the door open, giving me her answer.
I step past her and as she closes the door, I hook my hand in the straps of the bag, lifting it to set it down on her bar counter.
“May I?” I ask, motioning toward the bag where the phone rings relentlessly. Clearly, at this point, she’s intentionally not answering. And when someone doesn’t answer the first time, you don’t call back.
Whoever is calling her is rude and disrespectful, and though I have no claim to it, anger bubbles inside me that they’re continually calling.Harassingher.
She nods, and a wave of happiness washes over me for just a minute. I don’t know why she makes me feel things, but I reach into the bag and embrace the feeling.
I swipe the call, noticing the number is programmed into her phone asPB.
“Scarlett,you little fucking—”
I do not let whoever the fuck this is finish his sentence. My neck fills with strain as my jaw clenches, holding back a slew of obscenities that fill my mouth. But Scarlett drops to the ground, wrapping her arms around her legs as she rocks in a ball, pressing her face into her knees. And if I’m angry and loud, I will make her worse, even though the man on the line deserves my anger.
She’s trembling as I think, but I don’t know her well enough to pull her into me and give her any comfort. But the way she cowers and shakes at just the vibration of this person’s voice through the receiver—I don’t fucking like it.
I don’t want to make the anxiety attack she’s likely experiencing get any worse. Not because of me, at least.
I exercise control, and keep calm. For her.
I keep my voice low and my eyes on her as I say, “She isn’t answering, which means she does not wish to speak with you, so stop calling.”
The man on the other end snorts. “You my fuckin’ replacement? Jesus fuck, that who—”
Scarlett’s trembles amplify, so I end the call. I slide the phone onto the counter and take a seat on the old linoleum floor of her entryway. Keeping five feet between us—because everything about her screams wounded—I clear my throat.
“Are you okay?”
Three words, yet they clearly canvas so much terrain. I’m not just asking about her headache anymore, and we both know it.
Her glassy eyes find mine, and my stomach seizes uncomfortably at the tear that slides down her porcelain cheek. I don’t make a move to comfort her physically, but my finger taps the edge of my boot as I watch that tear disappear, her hand swiping it away.
“Can you please just… go,” she meekly pleads, dropping her eyes to her toes. She remains in a ball, still rocking gently. I glance around the apartment, and even in the early morning darkness, I can see there’s not much in here. A few boxes are stacked in one corner, but aside from those, a side table and a television, the place is sparse.
“Please go,” she begs again. My visit and unwillingness to leave is upsetting her more, I can hear the anguish in her words. My eyes connect with hers, and the silent pleading I find there sends a jolt of pain through my chest.
I get to my feet, unable to take my eyes off her. Opening the door, I step outside but before I close it all the way, her gaze lifts to me. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m fine. My head is f-fine. I’ll be at work. Just…please…go.”
