3. Winter

THREE

WINTER

S chool doesn't start for another three weeks, but I'm already finished with the required reading for the next month of classes.

Veronica's told me many times that I spend too many hours with my head in a textbook, but what else would I do? When things are silent and I'm alone, my brain buzzes, energized. Keeping productive and busy helps me to feel fulfilled…and prevents my mind from flipping into an anxiety loop.

It's part of my process.

I'm adding notes to a Post-It in my advanced psychopathology textbook when my phone pings with an email. The bright, happy chime sends a rocket of terror through my body. Kitty jumps up when I do, wagging his tail as he leans on my leg. In my flailing, I accidentally bump into my desk, causing my textbook to plop on the floor. The index cards I've organized over the past hour scatter around my small desk.

"Girl, chill!" I instruct myself out loud, hoping the sound of my voice will cut through the panic and calm my racing heart .

I'm way too on edge.

It's been almost a week and a half since I last heard from Dr.Wagner about the possible case, and my stress has risen in direct proportion to the number of days that have lapsed with no contact.

I need this chance.

As time passes, the idea of securing counseling clients and possibly going into a clinic keeps me up at night.

I try to be gentle with myself—to honor where I am in my journey and how far I've come. Because I've come fucking far. And yet, I can't help the frustration I feel when I think about how much of a struggle it is for me to do what I want.

I'm fighting against demons I didn't invite in. I resent the events that have brought me here.

I resent the fuck out of them.

But as Genevieve says, I didn't create this story. I'm just a character in this jacked up play.

Woo-freakin-hoo.

Enough is enough. If it's not from them, I'll follow up. It's okay to follow up. It's not annoying. It's expected.

I grab the phone off my nightstand, standing still without looking at it.

In his dark, slightly cross-eyed stare, Kitty says to me, Wayminute, girlfriend. Take a chill pill. A literal one, if you need it.

I rub behind his ear.

Canine pep talk received, I open the app.

A renewed surge of adrenaline shoots through me, and Kitty takes a moment to move back, assessing me.

"A-Alert," I say to Kitty as my voice quakes.

Throwing my phone on my bed, I rush to the corner of the apartment. Plopping down with my back to the wall, I stare at the phone from across the room as if the messenger could reach through the screen and drag me down to the depths of hell a la The Ring. Kitty automatically settles into my lap, his butt on my thighs and his paws resting on my chest. His little head nestles against my neck.

The Law Offices of Mercer, Statham, and Ryland, PLLC.

Well, fucking shit.

My heartbeat pounds in my ears, and the edges of my vision seem fuzzy and clouded. Overwhelming dread surges through me as it always does when I see the sender's name.

It's just an email. It can't hurt me. It's just an email. It can't hurt me. It's just an email. It cannot fucking hurt me.

Kitty's lick on my cheek tickles enough to cause an unexpected giggle to bubble from my lips. It does a lot to calm me down. Kitty sits beside me, leaning his body against my thigh and putting his head on my lap. I press my palms against my chest and belly and school myself to breathe in and out as deep as I can to a count of three.

One.

One-two-one.

One-two-three-two-one.

I repeat the mantras. As the buzzing between my ears lessens, Kitty moves to put his paws on my bent legs. I crack my eyes open in time to see him tilt his head to the side as if to say, You good now?

My energy vacillates, and he tries to climb on me again, ready to provide the deep pressure therapy he's been trained to give when I need it. I scoop him up to cuddle him to my chest. His head goes back to my neck. Patient.

The law firm handling my case only reaches out to me once every three years. It's not that they're reaching out to me that's sending me into a spiral. It's that they're a year and a half early contacting me that's got me off guard. And me being off guard still isn't a healthy spot.

Breathe, Winter. You can handle whatever it is.

"I'm good, Kitty." I rub his velvet-soft ears. "I'm all right."

We sit silently for a few more minutes—as silent as Kitty can be with his floppy airway—and don't move until Kitty licks my cheek again.

You've got to read the email, Winter.

With cement-filled joints, I unfurl my body to walk back to my bed. Grabbing the phone, I open the message and sit.

Ms. Vaughan:

The parole hearing for Adam Collins will be on September 23rd at 9:00 AM EST at the Commonwealth of Virginia Correctional Complex, Room 14A. As a petitioner, you can provide a victim impact statement in person or via written submission for the Parole Board's consideration. Please notify this office of your selection and submit any written statements by September 13th at 5:00 PM EST.

You will receive formal notice of this meeting from the Department of Corrections within the upcoming weeks.

Sincerely,

Janice Mercer, Esq.

The Law Office of Mercer, Statham, and Ryland, PLLC

My heart trips over its rhythm. It always does when I have to deal with things related to Adam.

You're mine, my little princess.

A shudder travels through me, but I'm comforted that I managed to stave off a full-blown panic attack.

"Thank you, Kitty," I say. Kitty tilts his head again, and I swear I see him shake his head at me before heading to my nightstand.

He paws open the drawer, grabbing the medicine bottle with my emergency Xanax. He hops on the bed, dropping it by my hip before trotting off to grab a small four-ounce bottle of water from the basket I keep at his height.

He pads over, jumps back on the bed, and drops the water next to the pills.

It's amazing the things the service dog trainers were able to teach Kitty to do, but teaching him to respond to my panic attack cues by bringing me medicine and water is the most mind-boggling task he's able to do for me.

When I don't move to take the pills, Kitty nudges both bottles closer to my hip.

Time for an actual chill pill, babes , his stare says.

I pick up the medicine bottle and decide to take half of my emergency med. Swallowing down the anti-anxiety pill, I squeeze my eyes together so tight that static artifacts dance across my darkened field of vision.

Adam Collins is a name only a few people in my circle know. There was a time when I looked for him around every corner. I'd feel whispers of his hands on my body. I'd smell his sweat. I'd see his eyes in the faces of others around me.

His presence haunted me.

So I buried him—buried him deeply in the dark corners of my psyche, plastering mental bricks and cement in front of the tomb marked "Adam Collins and All the Fucked-Up Shit He Did to Me."

I am in control of when I think about Adam. I control when I have to deal with the aftermath of his actions. I am in control.

But this moment feels so incredibly out of control.

"I will not allow him to win," I say out loud. Kitty huffs as if in agreement—a solid, You go, girl said in the exhalation.

I calmly place my phone on my nightstand. Giving myself a few more moments of silence, I feel the effects of the Xanax start to seep into my muscles.

You are in control. You hold all the cards.

I move back to my desk and draft a reply email. Relief pushes the weight of anxiety off my body when I attach my pre-written statement to the email to my lawyer. With a final hard press of the power button, I slam my computer shut.

Now you're done.

I inhale deeply and hold my breath, feeling the burn of oxygen as it expands my lungs and pushes out my ribs. When I exhale, the mortared wall encasing all things Adam Collins is firmly back in place.

I feel Kitty pad up to me again, nudging my leg in his signal that it's time to go out. A quick glance at the window shows that it's nearing dusk, and I'm an hour late for his evening walk. Luckily, I've trained Kitty to the point where he can do his business at dusk and be good until the morning.

"All right, Thunderbite. Let's roll." I saddle Kitty with his harness and adjust one of the Velcro badges that indicates that he's a working man. Er, dog. I grab my keys, phone, and Kitty's leash and lead us to the doggy park.

It takes us ten minutes to get to the park attached to my building, 110UWest. While I fell in love with my apartment at first glance, the amenities the building provided reassured me that I was making the right decision—even if moving out of the Lance household was terrifying.

The building is new, completed in the last five years. It has a state-of-the-art gym, plenty of outdoor and indoor socializing space, and an elegant entrance with floor-to-ceiling white marble walls. They even have events multiple times per week.

Granted, I use none of these amenities, but I like that they are there. The icing on the cake is the dog park, though.

Being so close to a place important to my mom and dad also feels good. They both went to undergrad at Howard, and while I never went there like we talked about, I feel echoes of their presence just being here.

Kitty stops at my heel when I pause inside the park. He's still, focused. I take the leash and harness off, and he shakes out his fur.

"Off duty," I order.

He lets out a quick, happy yip, and when a butterfly flutters past him, he darts off after it.

I survey my surroundings, constantly vigilant to who is around me. The park is empty right now; I'm grateful for that. My wrecked nervous system can't handle another scare after all that happened today.

Everything is okay. You are safe.

I listen to my mental instructions and take a seat on the bench.

The gate opens.

A man, well over six feet tall, walks into the park with a Great Dane in tow.

Of course.

I scoot closer to the side of the bench, clutching the railing.

Kitty pauses his play with the butterfly and gets to work when I tell him, "Business."

The look he gives me clearly says, But, Mom! and then, with a huff, he starts circling his favorite patch of grass.

"I've seen you here before and meant to ask. Your dog is named Kitty?" The man's voice is deep and slightly accented. I can't tell exactly where his accent is from, but he doesn't have the open, Mid-Atlantic tone so many people in the area have. I observe him and then realize I must look absolutely insane because when I snap my mouth closed, it's only then that I realize I'd been staring at him with it wide open.

"My aunt was blind, and she had a service dog," he provides, even though I didn't reply to his question. I'm grateful he doesn't try to interact with Kitty, even if he's off-duty. I feel terrible when I have to tell people not to touch my dog. He's not just a pet. He's my accessibility aid.

Kitty does his business, and I hop up way too quickly to scoop his poop and throw it away. I freeze in front of the trashcan, staring at the stranger when he whistles for his dog. The action startles me, and my mind and body rocket through the fight, flight, freeze, or fawn cycle.

You can be out of here and back in your apartment in all of three minutes.

"Uh-huh," I reply dumbly.

The man takes pity on me and smiles. A dimple pops in his right cheek, and my brain short-circuits.

Resolved, I scoop Kitty up. I'm steps from the gate—and freedom—when the man speaks.

"Your dog? Did I hear that right?" He nods at Kitty, who I hold in my arms as if he were a grenade. His smile deepens, and of course, another dimple pops out. I'm officially nervous as fuck.

"Yeah," I croak. "His name is Kitty. Like after that kid's movie? I like irony, so…" I trail off, and he nods.

"That's cool," is all he says. His dog huffs, and it sounds like a horse.

That's all I need to snap out of my stupor and make a move toward the gate.

"Okay, well, it was nice to meet you!" I say because that's what regular humans say in these types of social interactions. Right? I shuffle toward the exit and awkwardly try to open it while still holding my dog and all his gear.

Suddenly, a hand shoots out from behind me and flips the latch. "I'm Marcus. What's your name?" He continues to smile, and I'm suddenly hit with the thought that something must be very wrong with him because who the fuck smiles this much?

"Wi—Uh, um, Kitty's Mom." I press my lips together, ducking beneath his arm and to the other side of the gate.

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Kitty's Mom!" he calls out as I speed walk down the path toward the entrance of the apartment building.

"Home," I tell Kitty breathlessly to transition him from work states once we walk into the apartment. He saunters to his bed in the apartment as if everything is normal. Frazzled is the only way to describe how I feel. I head to the bathroom and wash my hands before splashing water on my face.

All things considered, you handled that quite well.

I avoid my reflection in the mirror.

When I walk back into the main room, I hear the tell-tale ping of an incoming message. Knowing that it's after five, it's unlikely to be the lawyer confirming receipt.

And if it is, that's fine.

I decide to face whatever it is and nearly yell when I see an email from the potential client.

Hello, Winter:

This is Ella Brigham, the aunt of the client Dr.Wagner consulted you about. I am scheduling interviews for counseling staff over the next few days. Please use the link below to schedule a time on my calendar.

I look forward to speaking with you.

EB

Biting my fingernail, I look at Kitty, who licks his balls with zero shame. Now that I'm faced with the prospect of an actual interview, I try not to spin as I consider whether I should leave Kitty behind or take him.

No one would ask a wheelchair user not to use their wheelchair. They might as well get the real picture.

Squaring my shoulders, I click through to the scheduling link and secure a time for tomorrow. I'm determined to get the job so I can get this whole nightmare of securing a spot over with.

I can do this. I most certainly can.