14. Winter

FOURTEEN

WINTER

Today, I decided to give up on my degree. Well, that's not wholly accurate. I'm taking a leave of absence. The school doesn't know the dirty details of everything that happened in the last six weeks, but they know enough—that I'm dealing with too much to finish right now. I feel like a failure. But with how fucked up I am, I can't and shouldn't help anyone.

I put the pen down and stare out the bay window overlooking the rose garden. Kitty bounces around the garden with Ella, playing fetch and getting his exercise. He pounces from snowbank to snowbank, kicking up patches of snow next to the cleared walkway.

I've struggled to get out with him, and he needs daily movement. So I asked Hunter to ask Ella to play with him when she comes over.

I swallow down the discomfort of my inability to ask her myself.

Hunter chose this room for me on purpose, I think. I have a perfect view of the center of the rose garden, where I first knew Hunter was the man for me.

At first, I couldn't look out of the expansive windows. It was a reminder of my naivety—a reminder of my audacity to seek happiness.

Now, I force myself to remember and face the pain of everything I've lost.

A thick tarp covers the roses to prevent the blooms from dying. It's merciful to the flowers to cover them from the frost and wind. They wouldn't survive otherwise. But I can't help but feel that they're suffocating under the heavy tarp, weighed down and set in place until someone determines it's safe for them to be revealed.

I know how that feels.

Valentine's Day is next week. Hunter and I are supposed to be in Paris right now, taking in views from his flat. We're supposed to be eating French onion soup, tasting French bread and wine, and acting like tourists as we see the Arc de Triomphe and the Eiffel Tower. We're supposed to be boating down the Seine. The French doors leading to the terrace are supposed to be open while we make love to the sounds of the city below.

I look down at the journal again, re-reading what I've written. The words are harsh and raw, but there is catharsis in giving them form so they can be channeled.

I'm doing something with the pain.

Maybe I did learn something in school .

My guilt about blowing Genevieve off smacks me in the face again. In the weeks since coming home, Genevieve contacted me several times. It's clear she spoke with Veronica, who spoke with Hunter. After an embarrassing welfare check, which led to a tense verbal standoff between the police officers and Hunter's guards at the front gate, I emailed Genevieve to let her know that I wouldn't be coming back to therapy anytime soon, but I would be back eventually.

I don't have any concept of when "eventually" will be. I don't want to believe that I'm lying to her. That was weeks ago.

Shouting comes from the direction of the foyer, and I freeze for several heart-stopping seconds.

Who is it?

Why are they here?

Am I in danger?

I contemplate hiding in the closet when a familiar voice cuts through my panic. But then, dread flares up in its place.

"Winter!" Veronica's voice cuts through the hallway, getting closer to my room. I don't move to greet her. She'll find me.

When the door almost explodes from its hinges as it swings open and slams against the adjoining wall, Veronica's flushed face appears before me. I realize I don't know what to say to my best friend.

I'm a confusing tangle of emotions. I dread seeing her pity. I'm angry at her for overstepping boundaries by talking to my therapist and Hunter. I'm sad that I haven't been strong enough to handle speaking with her. I'm ashamed that I've been avoiding her.

"You found me," I say. My face is numb, so I grit my teeth to ground myself, grateful for the feedback my healing jaw sends to my brain.

"Winter Leigh Vaughan," she says, huffing between each name .

At least she didn't call me Brigham.

"I have tried to give you space. I have tried to be who and what you need. But you cannot, and I mean you cannot avoid me any longer." Her breaths come in small pants, and I'm unsure if it's from the size of her pregnant belly compressing her lung space or if it's from her fury. It's probably from both.

"I'm sorry I haven't called," I say. It's flat.

"Sorry? You're sorry ?" She shuffles over to a chair and sits down.

"Stop yelling before you go into early labor," I tell her. There's little energy behind it.

Add "shit friend" to my list of sins.

"Winter, you were missing for days. And then, when you were back, you were still gone. I can understand you needing space and seclusion, but from me?" Tears swim in her eyes, and instead of feeling the pull to comfort her, a surge of irrational anger crops up.

"Sorry that my healing from being abducted and raped repeatedly has caused me to take time to respond to your texts." Every word is pointed, sharp. I've never spoken to her this way, and she clutches her chest, her mouth hanging open.

Silent, Veronica sits still for several seconds.

"Winter, I care about you. I love you. I want to help you," she says, her voice soft.

"Yeah, well, maybe I don't want your help! Have you ever thought of that?" Furious tears blur my vision.

I don't even know why I'm pushing Veronica away. I do want her help. I do want her love.

And yet, a loud, angry, hurt part of me rejects her presence right now.

"You've made it your entire personality to save me. Well, I'm sorry, but I don't have the energy to manage your feelings or your need to play savior." I breathe hard, verging on hyperventilation.

"Winter," she whispers. "I?— "

"Listen, I'm not—" I'm not, what? Not well? Not sane? Not healthy? Not a good person to be around? "I'm not able to give you what you want right now. And for the sake of what remains of our friendship, I humbly ask that you give me space to process."

She stares at me for several seconds, and when a single tear falls from her eye, I feel like throwing up all over the hand-knotted rug.

Instead, Veronica gets up with as much grace as she can and says, "Thank you for sharing."

And then she walks out the door.

The image of her stricken face brands the inside of my eyelids when I dare to close them.

Dropping my journal and pen on the floor and putting my head in my hands, my thoughts whirl around in my brain.

You know what you need to do.

I should be in therapy. Maybe on more meds. Maybe on a trip somewhere far from this place that holds so much pain.

I want to go to Paris with Hunter.

The heat of imminent tears wells in my eyes, and instead of stifling them, I let them fall.

I let the sobs exit my body. I allow myself to feel the fullness of my sorrow.

I don't want to push everyone away.

I just want to not feel like this.

Resolved, I walk to the nightstand where I left my phone charging. I take a moment to swipe through all the notifications—the several text messages and missed calls from Veronica.

Veronica. I'm such a fucking twat.

I inhale and exhale to the count of three. Moving back to the bay window, I open my email app and start writing.

Twenty minutes later, after starting and stopping and rewriting several times, I re-read my email .

Genevieve,

It's hard for me to talk with you face to face, even through a screen. I don't fully understand why. The best I can guess is that by seeing you, I'll be reminded of how much progress I've lost and how I'm not adapting or healing or moving forward.

It's not a self-serving thought, I know.

If it's any consolation, you're not the only person I've been avoiding. (You're supposed to laugh here.)

I do plan on starting therapy again, but I'm not ready. I don't know what it means to "get ready," either. But I'm hoping that I could maybe just...send you emails like this and maybe if you email me back, I'll respond.

I know this method isn't therapeutically supported, but it's all I've got right now.

I'm relying on Kitty and using my emergency anxiety meds—but not too much. Maybe just enough?

I am safe.

Winter

I am safe.

My finger hovers over the send button.

I should send this message to Genevieve, but the idea of doing so sends a bolt of anxiety through me that's so potent that I drop my phone to stifle the resulting wave of nausea.

One.

One-two-one .

One-two-three-two-one.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I count and breathe.

Count and breathe.

Hunger pangs shock me out of my spiral, and when my stomach releases a loud growl, I glance at the time on the clock.

It's nearly three p.m. and I haven't eaten anything all day. I lean my head against the window. That's another pattern I've been battling—cycling between not eating for hours and then binging at night.

I'm a whole, complete mess.

I don't have to be.

Steeling myself, I put my phone in my pocket and head to the kitchen. When I face the well-stocked refrigerator, I get overwhelmed with the options. It's like I can't make a decision.

The overwhelm makes me want to cry. Again.

"Stop with the fucking tears," I say out loud, and I jump when Kitty's collar jingles behind me.

I look in his direction, and he hops over to me, nudging my leg with his nose.

I am here. I am safe.

I open the freezer and pause when I see the opened box of Eggo waffles. There are at least six boxes here, all lined up in a perfect row.

August.

I'm an asshole. I've all but abandoned him, and that fucks with my head—not just on a professional level, but on a personal level too.

I've fucked everything up.

I pull the box of Eggos out of the freezer, and the cold centers my brain, shocking it to think of nothing else but the frostiness in my palms.

I don't want to feel like this. I don't want to feel like this anymore .

I press the box to my chest and close my eyes, ignoring Kitty's whines.

My eyes snap open when I feel the air shift near me. And as if I summoned him, the person I need to see is there: August.

He looks nervous as he bites his lip and rocks from side to side.

I'm ashamed that this is the first time I've seen August since everything happened.

"Hey, Aug," I say in a tired voice. My body and mind and soul are tired. So, so tired.

August blinks hard several times before picking up his tablet, fingers flying over the screen.

"Hello, Winter. It is good to see you," he says.

Suddenly, I feel more tears roll over my eyelids.

"You changed your sound," I say with a choked voice. Before, he used an American gangster accent, then an older British woman. Now it sounds like a sullen teenager. Maybe this is more fitting to how he feels.

"Yes," is all he says.

I go to put the Eggos back in the freezer, but stop when August says, "Are you going to eat my Eggo waffles?"

I don't push the box back on the shelf. Instead, I say, "I was thinking about it, but I don't have to."

He rocks and lets out a few vocal tics. "If you would like to eat them, you may have two."

I don't look at him as I rub my numb lips together.

"Thank you," I reply, forcing my mouth to curl into a smile as I turn to him. I open the box, pulling two waffles out of the plastic sleeve before putting the box back in place and popping the golden disks into the toaster.

We're silent for several moments. I stand with my back to the counter and the toaster, staring at the floor but keenly aware of August's presence out of the corner of my eye.

August stims and taps on his tablet .

"Do you hate me now?"

I whip my head up at August's question, startled. "No! Absolutely not. Hate you for what?" I stand up straighter, really taking time to look at him. I track the tension as it shoots through his body. He stims louder—an outlet for his distress.

"Because I did not save you from the bad man. Just like I did not save my mom." August scratches his head and looks down. His rocking gets more intense.

At this moment, I feel even more like shit. Not only have I pushed Veronica away, but I've also pushed August away. I've pushed everyone away—everyone who can help me. Everyone who can really help me get through this.

Do I want to live in my pain? Am I choosing this?

"Oh, August," I say, walking closer to him. "August, you did nothing wrong. You must have been so scared while I was gone."

When he looks at me, his face contorts in sorrow, with his lips downturned and tears in his eyes.

"I just do not want you to hate me," he says.

I don't think. I don't ask. I pull him into my arms and hug him. He bands his arms around me, and we rock from side to side together.

"I'm not your therapist anymore, you know," I say. "But that's a good thing because I love you, August. I could never hate you. Ever. So that blurs the professional line, don't you think?"

He takes a big breath, holding it in before releasing it. He whistles, a new stim I haven't heard from him before. After a few rounds of vocalizations, some of the tension leaves his body, even though he still stims with his fingers. I pull away from him.

"I'm sorry I've been so distant. I promise I'll do better," I say. The waffles pop out of the toaster, and I remove them, enjoying the sharp contrast of their warmth in my palms .

He taps his finger on his cheek three times. "Do you want to play Doom of the Zombie Galaxy IV with me?" he says.

I smile a little bit. "You better not have wrecked my high score," I reply.

"Please eat your food, and then we will go," he replies, bouncing on the balls of his feet for a few seconds. He looks happy. He's happy to be with me.

And I'm happy to be with him.

I make quick work of eating the waffles after applying butter and a drizzle of syrup. Satiated, I put the plate in the sink.

"Can we go now?" August says from behind me.

My absent gaze watches the water pool in the sink before swirling down the drain.

Things don't have to be this way. I can get help out of this. I know this to be true. I've lived this.

I can get help to stay out of the dark place.

I turn the water off.

"Just one thing," I reply, spinning to face him and pulling my phone out of my pocket.

"Ready?" August asks a few moments later. When I look at him, I absorb his happiness. His energy is contagious.

"Yes, I am," I say.

I return to the open email and push send.