I know he was angry about the chute failure. Hell, I was terrified. Those lines sprang up around me, one slapping me across the cheek and snaking across my goggles, and I knew something was wrong. Everything was twisted, and I didn’t feel the harness tighten around me. The chute wasn’t opening.
The voice of the ground crew was calm and focused. It took me a few seconds to recover, but once I did, I followed the instructions. I remembered the training, and jettisoned the main chute. I pulled the reserve, and it did exactly what it was made to do. It opened above me, and I was jerked upward, slowing dramatically. The rest of the jump went perfectly, with the ground crew guiding me down.
It was a frightening experience, but the fear was already dissipating by the time my feet hit the ground. Until Ronan. I’d never seen him like that before. Wild-eyed, panicked. I can understand that he was worried, but he’s an experienced skydiver. He knows that sometimes you have to deploy the reserve. He told me that himself. I was prepared. I knew what to do, and the crew knew how to get me to the ground safely. Everything was fine.
Ronan apparently did not think it was fine. But that doesn’t explain why he went dark on me. Why he didn’t return my call yesterday.
I’m worried about him. He was so tense, so out of control. I figured he just needed some time to himself, but as I stand here in front of his door, I have a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I wonder if something else is going on.
I take a deep breath and knock. No answer. I know he’s here. I’m not too proud to admit I circled the parking garage, looking for his car when I arrived. I knock again. Maybe he’s in the building but not in his office. He could have gone down to the lobby for coffee. Or be talking with someone from one of the other departments. He isn’t always in his office.
But it’s barely after seven. Hardly anyone else is here.
Although it feels like an intrusion, I grip the door handle and push. Locked.
Either he’s locked himself in, or he’s not in there. I go back to my office and send him a message. Hi. Can we talk?
I get caught up with work for a while, although the fact that my message goes unanswered isn’t far from my thoughts. I walk by his office again, on my way to the copy machine, and Sarah is at her desk. Ronan’s door is still closed. I almost ask Sarah if he’s in, but for some reason, I can’t make myself do it. The longer I go without hearing from him, the more anxious I get. I’m afraid of what she’ll tell me.
I have an afternoon meeting, and I glance at the list of invitees after I get back to my desk. Ronan is listed as attending. I wonder if he’ll show up.
He’s not in the conference room when I arrive at two. I take my seat and scroll through my emails while I wait for it to begin.
The meeting gets going, and Ronan finally slips in, taking a seat in the back of the room instead of at the conference table. I glance at him, but he doesn’t meet my eyes. My stomach turns sour. What is going on with him?
I try to pay attention, but I’m too preoccupied. Ronan sits where I can’t see him without turning all the way around, but I feel him there. I can picture him leaning back in his chair, his elbow bent, his hand on his chin.
Finally, the meeting ends. I get up and turn in time to see Ronan’s back, heading out the door.
What the fuck?
This is getting ridiculous. I follow him back to his office, forcing myself to walk normally so it doesn’t look like I’m chasing after him. I don’t want to look pathetic in front of the whole staff, but my stomach churns with worry and a dark sense of foreboding follows me. I can tell by the rigid set of his shoulders that something is wrong.
Very wrong.
He passes Sarah without a word and goes into his office, shutting his door behind him. I follow, struggling to keep my composure. He better not lock the damn door.
I turn the handle, and it opens.
He’s already sitting at his desk. I don’t wait for an invitation. I walk in and shut the door behind me.
Ronan looks up at me, but doesn’t hold my gaze. He goes back to something on his laptop. A sudden flash of anger replaces the worry.
“Are you serious?” I ask.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re going to completely ignore me?” I ask. “I’m standing right here.”
“I know you’re there,” he says.
“Well, say something. What’s going on?”
“Selene, I’m very busy this afternoon,” he says. “Can we talk later?”
His voice is so cold, I’m instantly chilled. “Is this about Saturday? Because honestly, I’m fine. It was a little bit scary, but nothing bad actually happened.”
“It isn’t about Saturday.”
Something about the way he says that makes my shoulders tighten. It means I’m not imagining things. There’s an it. A problem.
I have a feeling I’m about to get hurt.
“What is it, then?” I ask.
“I really don’t think we should do this right now—”
“Yes, we should.” I cross my arms and stand my ground. He’s going to tell me what’s going on, and he’s going to do it now.
He rubs his chin. “Saturday made me realize something. I crossed a line with you that I shouldn’t have.”