Distortion

Chapter 3: Teased by the Jerk

He looked better in the soft glow of lights illuminating the dark woods of the office. His demeanor had shifted. He appeared comfortable, hiding among mahogany wood and oak flooring. Like he'd been a rich man among the poor in the living room and he was suddenly reunited with his fellow snobs. I wanted to smack him as he ran his fingers lovingly over the edges of the bookshelves and smoothed his palms over the top of the desk. He'd opted for the desk chair, naturally becoming the focus of the room, forcing me to settle into one of the plush, oversized reading chairs facing the man and the desk.

I'd only seen him like this a select number of times; times that I could count on my fingers. The confidence seemed to radiate from his pores, caressing and highlighting his skin. But when he spoke, letting my name fall from between his teeth, almost like a prayer, I realized that I'd read him wrong. His confidence only went skin deep, this time, brought on by a sense of comfort found in the room. His self-doubt and fear for the future wouldn't and couldn't be annihilated by a grand desk and ceiling-high bookcases.

His dark eyes searched the room, scanning the book titles and examining the portraits of barns on the walls. As he'd been picking up rocks and deeming some better than others, I'd had an odd fascination for animals that became food. Barns made for great pictures, the colors matching the theme of the office.

Finally, he looked at me, shrugging his shoulders in the process. His confidence seeming to slip away just as quickly as it had appeared. I waved my hand in a gesture for him to begin, but he sat dumbstruck and silent, unsure of where to start. I knew the story, knew it as my own. I knew when the left-hand turn he made should've been a right, saw the moment he jumped off the cliff, leaving his parachute tangled in a ball at the top. He'd never been much of a risk taker, that I could remember. He'd never been forward or cocky or impulsive. Always, he'd seek reassurance for what was about to take place.

This time, he hadn't. This time he'd jumped head-first into a murky swamp without a clue as to how to swim or where he was even going. This time he'd let his ego and pride sweep him away in the current until he bashed his head on a rock under the water and knocked himself out. This time he put all of his eggs in one basket and the basket had broken.

"Britt, I've made a huge mistake," he murmured, tapping his fingers against the top of the desk. His foot could be heard scraping against the floor in his agitated manner.

"Yes," I agreed, nodding my acknowledgement and acceptance. "But it's nothing that can't be fixed."

He looked at me warily, uncertainty dodging across his features as he regarded me with a blankness that I hadn't exhibited from him before.

"You're kidding, right? This is an utter disaster, Britt. This can't be fixed. This isn't something that just plays itself out or just requires a hammer and some nails. This is bigger than that!" He threw his hands into the air as if that would somehow make me grasp the severity of the situation better than his anxious movements. As if his hands shooting into the air like rockets would both awaken and deafen me to what I obviously hadn't noticed. I nodded in response, realizing that he again wasn't seeking answers from me. Not yet, at least.

Right now he just needed me to listen.

"Britt, do you remember the day that I first went to the board, the first step I made into political life?"

I did. We'd been just barely adults. He'd been running from his family and he'd dragged me along, causing me to scrape my knees in resistance. I'd told him he couldn't escape, explained that this wouldn't fix him the way he thought it might. As he pulled me into the counsel room, I'd wondered why the sudden change of heart in him. Why did he suddenly decide that politics was the path that he wanted to follow?