I'm overwhelmed by the response on Chapter 1, guys. Thank you all so, so much for all of your follows, favorites and reviews. It's really motivating, and I want to give you the absolutely best I possibly can.
...and that's why I'm bringing you Chapter 2 a lot sooner than I had planned on doing, as a gift from me to you. I hope you'll find this chapter as intriguing as I do, things are about to get very interesting.
Running in high heels with one large, hot coffee in each hand had been both an easier and a much better idea inside of my head than it turned out to be in practice. I was acutely aware that one misplaced step would be enough to have to pay a visit to the hospital, with first-degree burns covering greater parts of my body. I did not intend on spending my Sunday afternoon at the emergency, yet I kept running.
Something in my gut told me Killian wasn't like the rest of the men I had met, and my gut was usually a reliable source when it came to these kind of things. The problem was rather how I repeatedly chose to ignore its warnings. Other men had shamelessly been objectifying me, and couldn't care less about what condition I might or might not have been in when running their hands all over my body. I had just assumed, from experience, that they were all wired the same way. Having, to some extent, been proven differently was… refreshing, to put it simply.
Perhaps I was crazy for doing this, but I wanted to give Killian an honest and genuine apologize. The barely audible whisper of a 'thank you' at the café had left much to wish for, and what better way to say "I'm sorry" than to share that god damn coffee he'd been pestering me about. I just hoped he was still up for it.
I could distinguish something black and beige moving through the crowd about a hundred feet in front of me. As I closed in more and more, I slowed down on the running and started walking with long, determined strides, somewhat catching my breath in the process.
"Hey Killian! Killian, wait up!" I shouted after him.
He paused his legs and turned in my direction with a quizzical expression on his face. "Miss Swan?"
"You forgot your coffee," I smiled as innocently as I possibly could.
"As far as I recall, I never ordered any coffee," he raised his dark eyebrows, seemingly amused by my sprinting.
"Well, seems you got one anyway."
"Miss Swan, you're leaving me speechless." I was still short of breath, which he was quick on noticing. "Sit down, please," he ordered as he took both coffees out of my hands and approached a nearby bench covered in white, lazily drawn graffiti. He gracefully parked himself on the bench's wooden material, the white paint fading, it posed no threat to his black jeans.
I gladly followed his example, my feet sore from the running-in-high-shoes syndrome.
A short moment of complete silence followed, a moment that felt like an eternity. My eyes were looking everywhere but at Killian Jones. Stressed people were rushing by on the pavement, most of them so full of themselves they couldn't care less about who they bumped with their elbows. A woman, covered in animal furs and with seemingly expensive shoes - that brand with the red soles which I never managed to pronounce correctly - stepped in a fresh pile of dog poop. I laughed evilly inside of my head. Karma.
"You wanted to tell me something?" Killian's accent surprised me every time he opened his mouth. I had always had a soft spot for foreign accents, but this was something else. His voice was mesmerizing.
"Umm, yeah… Well…" I struggled to find a suitable opening.
"I'm all ears, lass."
"I'm sorry." There. I'd said it. Now the rest would be up to him.
"For?" I had a hard time figuring out whether he was still upset, or whether he just tried to draw the words out of me.
I sighed. "I'm sorry for assuming the worst, and I'm sorry for my poor choice of words."
"And you thought this coffee would make up for it, didn't you?" In the corner of my eye I could see him smirk. Did he enjoy watching me suffer?
"The coffee isn't an apology. It's a thank you, for taking me in last night, and, you know… letting me sleep."
"You're very welcome." He took a large sip from the now cooling coffee. "You always have your coffee black?" He asked.
"I'm letting my body decide. If there's a headache present, then the blacker the better," I responded, finally able to look him in the eyes without feeling any guilt or embarrassment.
"I take it it's yesterday's alcohol is making sure you're in pain today." It was more of a statement than a question, but I nodded as a response anyway.
A fiery orange leaf swirled down and landed on my thigh. I took a deep breath and truly enjoyed the chilliness the cold air brought through my airways and down my lungs. Autumn had always been my favorite season; I liked being able to put decent-looking clothes on without turning into a wandering puddle of sweat. The bright colors of the trees cheered me up and reminded me that things, and people, may change for the better.
"Well, miss Swan," Killian threw a glance at his silvery wristwatch. "While I appreciate your thoughtful gesture and words, I'm afraid I'm the one who has to be someplace else."
"Oh, of course." Silly me, believing this moment would last any longer. Not that I wanted it to, definitely not. I'd apologized, and that was all I had wanted.
We rose simultaneously, and the awkwardness of the situation made itself reminded as neither of us seemed to be able to figure out an appropriate way of saying goodbye. We are as good as strangers after all, I thought to myself as I offered him my right hand. He grabbed on to it firmly and gave me two friendly pats on my shoulder with his free hand.
"Until we meet again, Emma Swan," he added while slowly backing away from me.
I was drowning in his features. Until we meet again, Killian Jones. A scenario that was highly unlikely, I had to remind myself.
"So, did he buy it?" Mary Margaret asked as soon as I rejoined them at the café.
"What?" I looked at her with big, uncomprehending eyes.
"The car of course, silly," she teased me while playing with a strand of her pixie cut, brown hair.
"Oh, right. He thought I asked a little too much for it," I replied, aware that we both knew he never intended to buy any car.
"You slept with him, didn't you?" Ruby was probably the most straight-forward person I'd ever known. She always spoke her mind without thinking twice. "I could sense the electricity the second I saw you two together."
"As a matter of fact, I never slept with him." My confident tone seemed to assure her I was telling the truth.
Mary Margaret, however, wasn't as convinced. "But you forgot your purse at his place on an early Sunday morning?"
"To make a long story short; Yes, I slept in his bed, but I didn't sleep with him," I explained.
"Ooh, are we witnessing Emma Swan being serious with a guy for once?" They were both stating their interest in the matter by leaning closer toward me, four elbows on the glass surface of the table. I felt like I was being interrogated.
"It's nothing like that, really. I promise," I responded, still fairly certain I'd never see Killian again. I had no reason to do so, anyway.
"So, tell us about your new job, Ruby. Is it any better than your old one?" I made an obvious attempt at changing the subject.
She rolled her green, almost toxic, eyes at me, letting me know she was well aware of my avoidance tactics. "If you ignore the fact that my wallet has been put on a sudden and not so appreciated diet; yes. At least my new boss isn't a complete douche."
Ruby began telling stories about her new co-workers and their strange, more or less annoying, habits, but I was only listening with one half of my brain. The other half was occupied by something - someone - far more interesting. I imagined what it would be like to ruffle his hair, feel his biceps, rest my head upon his chest, listen to his voice all night long.
What's the matter with you, Emma? I quickly shook any and all thoughts of the more impure nature out of my head.
"Do you feel like you are making any progress with yourself, miss Swan?"
I was back in that green leather chair, the very same chair I had spent countless of hours in thus far.
I didn't exactly enjoy our sessions, but assumed they were for the best, my best, and my therapist was highly professional. We had over the course of soon-to-be a year developed a mutual respect for each other.
Dr. Archibald Hopper had been using that very same blue pen since the first time I went to see him. A favorite of his, I supposed. Perhaps changing stuff around, even small details like what pen he's using, would upset other clients of his.
"If falling asleep from being too drunk, which effectively prevented any and all sexual relations with a complete stranger counts as progress, then yes," I replied with sarcasm.
He eyed me, glasses low on the bridge of his nose.
"And how many of these, which you choose to call 'sexual relations', have you had since our last session?"
I had to think that question through before responding. Our last session had been taking place a little more than three weeks ago, and since Killian didn't really count…
"One," I replied in a neutral tone. It wasn't too bad of a bad number after all, although Doctor Hopper would've preferred if I'd answered 'none'.
"What emotions did you experience before, during and after this encounter?" He asked, carefully taking notes of my every word.
A tough but expected question. I knew how he wanted me to answer - happy; happy; and happy - but that answer would be nowhere near the truth.
I could, in theory, be my own therapist by now. I was well aware of the do's and do not's. I enjoyed reading and the peace it brought me, and I could easily have ploughed through all the books in the room's overstuffed bookshelf in a matter of weeks.
I nervously tapped my fingers against the mossy-colored armrest. Studying my own hand reminded me I really needed to fix my nails.
"Beforehand, I guess I felt excited. Butterflies, you know, almost a high." I paused to have enough time to be honest with myself.
"Please continue," he nodded, patient as always.
"During the act… Numbness, I didn't feel anything at all. I think. And after, the regular emptiness and shame. Angst. Disgust. Hate."
"Was the hate you experienced directed toward the man which you had just been intimate with, or toward yourself?"
The answer was ridiculously simple. "Myself."
"You see why it's important to break these patterns of yours, don't you Emma?" Dr. Hopper rarely called me by my first name, but anytime he did, I reacted with silent surprise.
"I've been aware of its importance since I first requested to see you," I sighed.
"You know what the next step is for you," his kind, blue eyes met mine.
"Impulse control," I responded wistfully. It had been my next step for about eight months.
I didn't seem to be making as much progress as I had imagined previously to the meeting.
Tuesday morning and reality was banging on my door. I had been off work since Friday, and the past weekend had definitely been interesting… which was more than I could say about the dreadful pile of paperwork on the wooden desk in front of me.
I slowly spun my chair around a couple of times. Procrastination was one thing I was good at, even though I was well aware that doing so would lead to nothing but me doing overtime hours at the office.
Not that it I minded, it didn't matter anyway. All I had planned for the evening was a date with my longtime lovers better known as Chinese takeaway and TiVo. Weekday boredom was another suitable phrase for the phenomenon.
"Emma, you done with the stuff I asked you to sort out anytime soon?"
"Give me another fifteen minutes and it'll be all finished, Jefferson," I replied.
Jefferson was the head of the department, and he had recently promoted me to his full-time assistant. I wasn't completely sure as to why, there were other highly competent - perhaps even more so than me - people who had been working at the company for way longer than I had. I guess Jefferson also took potential into calculation when making these kinds of decisions.
My more jealous, and less discrete about it, co-workers repeatedly told me Jefferson had a thing for blondes, a thought I preferred to ignore as soon as it found its way inside my head.
"Good. I've got a client here I can't keep waiting for much longer. Hurry up, will you please?"
I rarely got to meet the clients personally, which made it even more exciting when I eventually got to do so. Listening to fascinating book ideas and author biographies was a hundred times more interesting than spending hours filing unfinished drafts and manuscripts someone else had carefully been going through for decline or approval.
Twenty minutes later, I quietly entered Jefferson's generously sized, all-white office with pen and paper ready in my hands. The meeting with the client, an older woman with gracefully graying hair, had started before I had gotten there, but by listening in on the tone of the conversation, I could tell I hadn't missed much thus far.
"So, Emily, please tell us a bit more about your current project. Start from the beginning if you will, Emma here hasn't heard anything of it as of yet." Jefferson smiled at me.
He was a good boss after all, and I refused to believe he would hire or promote someone based on their physical appearance. That coming from me said a lot about him, as I usually tended to believe the worst in people.
"As you already know, Mr. Jefferson, it's a biography about my son's rise and fall in the sport of sailing. He became the World Champion at the age of 19, younger than anyone to ever achieve that title."
"And your son is aware of your intention to publish this story?" He asked her.
"Yes, he is indeed aware of it." She nodded as she uttered the sentence, as to further reassure us of her words.
"And what makes this story unique from every other successful-person-loses-everything biographies out there?" I blurted, quickly realizing my mistake.
Jefferson cleared his through in disapproval. "I'm sorry Emily, Emma's -"
"It's okay. She's though, I like it," Emily interrupted him with a smile reaching all the way to her eyes. "What makes this story unique, is how he continued his trail of success even after he'd lost one of his hands in a tragic car accident. He gained another handful of titles while wearing a prosthetic in place of his left hand, which inspired young people with prosthetics all over the world to follow in his footsteps and believe in themselves… To do something more with their lives."
"And his fall?" Jefferson asked her. I could distinguish curiosity in his voice, something he usually was able to hide like the expert he was.
"He lost more than his hand in that car accident; his fiancé died after more than 18 months in the ICU. My son had his hopes high as she actually did survive the crash itself, but when she'd finally taken her last breaths, his world fell apart. You could call it a severe depression, I assume." Emily's eyes had started to tear, and she excused herself as she buried her face in her hands.
Interesting. Was it good enough of a story to publish and sell in large quantities? I wasn't sure. But it was a moving and fascinating one, I couldn't take that from Emily, or her son for that matter. Then again, I'd never cared much for sports, let alone sailing. Who sails anyway, I though, thankfully keeping it to myself this time.
The meeting then continued as they usually did. Jefferson believed in Emily's ideas, and because she was a previously published author, her credibility was higher than that of someone unpublished. Jefferson and Emily were able to seal a mutually beneficial deal fairly quickly.
As I was finally about to leave the office for the evening, I realized I had forgotten to take copies of, and file, the papers signed at the meeting with Emily earlier that day. I glared at the papers, as though my stare would automatically have them move to the correct cabinet. Very unsurprising, they didn't move an inch.
I sighed, threw my brown purse on the floor next to my desk, and began going through the papers, one by one. I had done this so many times by now, I felt like a humanoid robot designed for this purpose only.
All the dates were correct, with all signatures in the correct places, and with a large placeholder sum noted down, the numbers just like Jefferson and Emily had agreed upon. But there was something else that caught my interest.
Author: Emily Jones
Author's date of birth: June 21, 1958
Origin of Author: Ireland
My stomach churned as I read the following line.
Suggested title of work: Killian Jones - The Rise and Fall of a Champion
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I'm once again apologizing if you've spotted any linguistic/grammatical errors. English isn't my mother tongue.