In Love and Diplomacy

Chapter Six: Somebody's Watching Me

"Tell me who's watching
And I don't feel safe anymore, oh what a mess
I wonder who's watching me now
Who?
The IRS?!"

- Rockwell, "Somebody's Watching Me"

Chapter Six

Despite my assurances I was fine, if only a little anxious, Cruz insisted I get checked out by the on-scene ambulances. The paramedics eventually released me with a diagnosis of head-to-toe bumps and bruises and warned me of the signs of a concussion.

They also confirmed what the news articles had stated. There were only mild to moderate injuries caused by the panicked stampedes of partygoers. It could've been much worse. Or, if you listened to the few opportunistic attendees already babbling to reporters, the party was as bad as it could've possibly been.

Kennedy met me at the ambulance, flying into my arms with shared relief and locking me in a steel hug. Where I was emotionally numb, she bordered dangerously on the edge of hysteria. Both were typical responses of post-traumatic whiplash.

When we finally parted, reassured the other was okay, we saw another familiar face in the gathering crowd.

Oliver towered over a steadily shrinking officer, arguing his way through the police barricade with loud animation. I'd never seen him so furiously overwrought with emotion, and apparently neither had Kennedy, who immediately leapt into his open arms. Oliver frantically caught her. His eyes and hands roamed over her face and body like he couldn't believe she was real. He confirmed she was okay while simultaneously demanding she tell him if hurt, and he held her. He held her as they both teetered on the emotional edge.

Somewhere in the residual panic, between the desperate and delicate kisses showered on cheeks and lips, they eventually accepted the other was there. There was nothing like the raw fear and gratefulness that pervaded their touches and desperate holds. I looked away, mindful of their privacy in the intimate reunion.

I got the full story after. Kennedy had left the bathroom right as the gun went off, and had been swept away in the crowd; she'd been deposited outdoors where she couldn't find me. But she was okay. Or she would be, eventually, with her fiancé by her side.

I didn't know anything else beyond that. I was numb.

There was no easy way to process what'd happened that night. A gun had gone off. It was something that never was, never would be, and never could be okay. I wouldn't wake up the next day, or the next week, or even the next year, and be okay with what'd happened. There was no magically waking up and moving on. How could I? My life had almost been mercilessly snatched by a faceless gunman; my heartbeat almost ripped away by a psychotic criminal still on the loose.

One of the few things I could never get back if taken had been threatened by a collection of metal, gunpowder, and violence.

How was I supposed to process that? Was I just supposed to accept it as a part of life? Or even worse, accept it as a part of my job?

Danger was a given in the miraculous and heavenly hellfire that was life. That I could agree with. I knew that to be true—but this? This danger wasn't fair. This danger wasn't okay. Where did I draw the line? How could I not demand retribution, argue for change, and bargain for safety after that night?

Didn't I deserve to feel safe?

I was angry.

Nervous.

Furious.

Scared out of my mind.

I wasn't scared the gunman would come after me; I was convinced I was only a potential victim of opportunity. But I was admittedly scared of the choices I'd made. If someone was targeting Cruz, then the smart choice would be to wave goodbye and hop on the interstate without looking back.