19. Bella

19

BELLA

W hen Gabriel pulls the Mercedes up in front of the house, my mind is spinning. I’ve never been on a date before, but the whole night felt like one. It felt exactly like what I would imagine a date to be, so much so that when Gabriel opens my door, and I step out of the car into the courtyard in front of his home, for one brief second, I almost expect him to kiss me. I hesitate, looking at his handsome face, framed by the soft, dark curls of his hair, his green eyes bright in the darkness, and I almost think he’s going to lean down and press his mouth to mine.

It’s absolutely ridiculous. But for some reason, I feel faintly disappointed when he doesn’t.

The house is dark and quiet when we walk inside, and we go upstairs as silently as we can manage, not wanting to wake anyone. It feels odd, as if we’re sneaking back in, even though it’s Gabriel’s home, and my pulse quickens in my throat, a strange and not unpleasant feeling of anticipation and nervousness tingling over my skin.

For—what? I ask myself, pushing the feeling away. Nothing is going to happen. His impulse to take me out to dinner was odd and unexpected, but it changes nothing between us. He’s my boss. I work for him. He has no interest in being with anyone. And I can’t stand anyone touching me.

There’s not just a single obstacle between us; there’s a whole course of them. And none of them are surmountable.

I break off to go to my room, to change into something to sleep in. I haven’t put clothes in his room, even though I’ve slept there the last few nights, because that feels far too permanent. It’s started to feel more and more important that I remember that my appointment for my pills is coming up—tomorrow, in fact—and that once I have them and the nightmares are no longer a threat, I’ll go back to my own bed.

Regardless of whether or not that makes me feel a pang of disappointment that has no place in my chest.

I strip off my jeans and sweater, ignoring the small throb of embarrassment, remembering that that’s what I wore out to dinner. It shouldn’t matter, I remind myself. There’s no reason to dress up for Gabriel, no reason to worry over my appearance. I work for him, and if I go out to dinner with him in jeans, it doesn’t matter if he likes it or not.

And therein lies the biggest problem, because he didn’t care, and that did matter to me. For more reasons than just whether or not he thought I looked pretty.

I pull on a pair of sleep pants and a long-sleeved shirt, needing the feeling of being covered up more than ever. The thought of my skin accidentally brushing Gabriel’s in bed still makes me feel panicky—but for different reasons than before, as well as some of the same. Not just because I’m afraid of being touched and the memories it brings back, but because I’m afraid of what else he could make me feel.

I’m just as afraid of it being good, I realize, as I am of it being bad.

I swallow hard, tugging my hair free of the ponytail, and walk to his room. He’s sitting up in bed with the light on, reading, and the intimacy of the moment feels like something twists in my chest. I have no right to see him like this, casual and handsome in bed, waiting for me to join him. This is all a diorama of something that I can’t have, and probably never will—especially with him. A picture of everything I’m missing out on. I don’t belong here, in his bed, next to him. I shouldn’t be a part of any of this. And yet, he’s invited me in, because he wants me to feel safe.

And I do. That realization hits me as I crawl into bed. I don’t fear him taking advantage. I fall asleep without worrying if I might wake up in the middle of the night to his hands on me, his body demanding things I can’t give, his insistence that he deserves all I have, whether I want to hand it over or not. I sleep without fear, next to him, and even if the nightmares crowd back in, it’s not because of him.

I never worry that Gabriel will hurt me.

I bite my lip as I slide down under the covers, rolling to one side so that I’m not looking at him. Tonight felt too much like a date, and this feels too much like going to bed with a long-time boyfriend, like we skipped past all of the feverish groping and passionate beginnings and the wild nights out and went straight to the domesticity of a long-term relationship.

Except for the fact that the way my heart is beating in my chest at his nearness, at the smell of him on the sheets, and the thought of what his skin might feel like under his clothes, is the exact opposite of that.

And it’s something I don’t dare try to test the waters of. Not only because I don’t want to disappoint him when I inevitably fail at trying to be intimate, but because I don’t want to be rejected if I try. That would hurt most of all, I think. To finally reach out, and have him say no, that he doesn’t want that. That he did tell me, after all, from the very start.

We’re never going to be that. So I close my eyes, and try to think only about what I do have, and not that this is the last night I’m going to spend in his bed.

I have nightmares, but they don’t wake me. And when I do wake up in the morning, Gabriel is gone. All except for a note, next to the bed.

I had to leave early this morning. Jason knows to take you to your appointment, and Agnes will watch the children all day today. Consider yourself off. You don’t need to feel obliged to do anything when you get back. Take care of yourself today, Bella. We’ll work out after dinner, if you feel up to it.

—Gabriel

My heart stutters in my chest as I read the note, and I feel my eyes burning, threatening tears. How is he so good? So kind? It feels so utterly unfair to have met a man like this now, when he can’t be anything more to me than just an employer. A friend.

But maybe that’s what I need. A friend.

I swallow hard, fold up the note, and walk to my room. It feels strange to have the day off—technically, I have weekends off, but I still end up doing things with Cecelia and Danny, unless Gabriel takes them somewhere on his own. Living here, I never feel entirely like I’m not helping out with something, because it feels weird to sit at the dinner table and not help clear it, and things like that.

But the day is mine, other than the appointment, and between the confusing emotions of last night and how difficult this afternoon will be, I’m grateful for it.

I take my time in the shower, pointedly not thinking about Gabriel. I’m going to be back in my own bed tonight, back to my own routines, and it’s important that there’s that line between us, that distinction of what we are to each other. It felt like it was being blurred a little, over this past week, but that makes sense, considering the fact that we were sleeping next to each other. But now, everything is going to go back to normal.

I get dressed, braiding my hair back on either side, pulling the remainder back into a ponytail, and pulling on a pair of loose black jeans and my favorite soft, forest-green sweatshirt. When I go downstairs, Agnes is in the dining room with Cecelia and Danny, a pile of waffles in the middle of the table, with sliced fruit and syrup, and a decanter of orange juice sitting next to them. She glances up at me, smiling, and I feel a little odd. I’ve gotten used to my routine here, and being out of it makes me feel uncertain of how to act.

“You should get some breakfast before your appointment,” Agnes says, sliding a waffle onto a plate and pushing it towards me, and I look at her, startled. I’m unsure of how much Gabriel told her, but I can’t imagine that he would have said that much. I don’t think he’s the type to betray a confidence, and even though I didn’t tell him to keep what he knows about me to himself, I very much doubt he would share anything so personal without asking me first.

Agnes’ face gives nothing away, and I decide that he must have just told her that I had a doctor’s appointment, when he asked her to watch the children for the day. Everyone has those. Relax , I tell myself, adding a spoonful of strawberries and pouring syrup over my waffle.

I half-listen as Cecelia chatters away to Agnes about their plans for the day, trying to eat. The breakfast is delicious, but I have a hard time taking more than a few bites. A lot has changed since the last time I saw Dr. Langan, and I don’t know how much I want to talk about. Enough to get my pills, at least, but beyond that?—

I wish I felt about my psychiatrist like I think I’m supposed to—like they’re a trusted, professional, open ear to spill my troubles into and get advice from. Like I can feel comfortable with them. But I never had. Not because there’s anything wrong with Dr. Langan on the surface—she seems nice enough, a kind, calm woman in her late thirties who listens and tries to dispense solutions to what I tell her.

It’s just that I haven’t told her very much.

Like Clara, I don’t know what to say. My father pays the bill, and surely, she must have looked up the name. She must know who he is and what he does. Or maybe she hasn’t, because as long as the bill is being paid, it doesn’t matter. But I’m acutely aware of how differently the mafia does things from the rest of the world, and I don’t know how, in the plush, modern office that Dr. Langan has decorated in rose pink and gold and taupe, to say I was engaged to a man I’d never met. That my father arranged a marriage for us, and the first time I really saw the man I was going to marry outside of a photo, he was waiting for me at the altar.

That the same man brutalized me only hours later. Hurt me. Let his men hurt me. That it was more than just a violation, more than just an assault. It was a betrayal—of the promises he was supposed to make to me, of the promises that the men who were supposed to protect me had made.

How could Dr. Langan, even with her degree and her experience, understand that? How could she imagine how that would make me feel?

I’ve told her that a man hurt me. I’ve even shared a few of the details. I’ve explained about the nightmares, about my clothing choices, about my fear of being touched. I’ve talked about my hobbies. I’ve skirted around the fact that I can’t go to college, that my father would undoubtedly expect me to marry another stranger, and that all my life, I’ve been raised to be a pretty piece of merchandise meant to be sold, bedded, and bred.

Now, I want to tell her about Gabriel. I want to tell her about the accounts, and that pretty soon, my father is going to stop paying that bill, most likely, but that I’ll be able to pay it instead. I want to ask her what it means that, for the first time, I’m almost disappointed that he doesn’t touch me.

I’m not sure how to explain any of that without explaining the rest.

I only manage a few more bites of my waffle before it’s time to go. I grab my purse and head out to where Jason is waiting for me with the car, Gio in the front seat. Jason opens my door for me, and I thank him as I slide into the blessedly cool interior, enjoying the feeling of the air conditioning.

He takes one look at my sweatshirt and turns it up a little, just like Jacq used to, despite Gio’s grumble of protest, and it makes me feel good. Cared for. Noticed, but in a way that doesn’t make me feel like I’m going to panic.

Maybe I’ve just spent my life around the wrong men. Maybe there’s more of them than I know that are like that. Like Jacq, and Jason, and Gabriel. Men who want to protect me, care for me, help me, instead of hurt and violate and use me.

I twist my fingers in my sleeves, thinking about that, and what it might mean. For me, for my future, for what I want out of life. How I might be able to change things for myself, taking the foundation that Gabriel is giving me, and expanding on it.

Those thoughts occupy me all the way to the small outer suburb of the city, where Jason pulls up in front of the gleaming building that houses Dr. Langan’s office. “Just text me when you’re ready to go,” he says, and I nod, sliding out of the car.

The interior of the building is cold, making me glad I’m wearing the sweatshirt. The lobby of the mental health offices is warmer, but Dr. Langan turns her own personal office down a few degrees for me when my appointment is coming up, or at least it seems that way. She’s always wearing a cardigan when I come in.

She’s sitting behind her desk when I’m escorted back, her auburn hair pulled back in a neat bun, and she's wearing a cashmere cardigan. She looks up with a smile, and motions to the couch, getting up from her desk chair and moving to the soft armchair that’s sitting catty-corner to the couch.

“Bella. I’m glad to see you.”

I shift uncomfortably on the couch. I don’t ever know how to feel at these appointments. I’ve spent my whole life with no one to open up to other than Clara, feeling isolated and mostly alone. I don’t know how I’m expected to talk to a stranger about things I can’t even share with my best friend.

“How have you been?”

Another question I don’t know how to answer. “Better,” I say cautiously. “But I’m still having nightmares. Bad ones. It messes up my sleep.”

Dr. Langan nods. “I was told you’d run out of your prescription.”

A tiny bit of bitterness heats the pit of my stomach. “Yeah. I asked for an emergency refill, or just a partial one, but they said I had to come in first. And that this was the soonest you could see me.”

“That’s true.” Dr. Langan looks at me appraisingly. “You haven’t been on the medication for all that long, Bella, objectively—although I’m sure it feels like it’s been much longer to you. I want to find out how you’re responding, if we need to adjust your dosage, add anything—all of that.”

“I think it’s fine.” I twist my fingers together in my lap, wondering if I can just bluff my way through this and go home. Back to Gabriel’s . That’s something I should talk about, if I feel up to it—the fact that I’ve started to think of Gabriel’s house as my home. But the idea of explaining the context of that feels exhausting.

“No negative symptoms or reactions? How does the sleep feel when you take them?”

“—hard?” I frown. “I don’t have dreams, which is the point, right? I’m a little groggy when I wake up, but otherwise fine.”

“And you’re exercising regularly, as we discussed?”

I nod. “I run, and—” My breath catches in my throat for a moment, as I remember the workout with Gabriel yesterday morning. The possibility of working out with him again this evening. “I’ve tried changing it up a little,” I finish lamely. “But mostly just running, still.”

“Experimenting with new things is good,” Dr. Langan says encouragingly. “Stepping out of your comfort zone, a little at a time, will start to help you heal.” Her gaze sweeps over me neutrally. “I see you’re still choosing to cover up with your wardrobe.”

There’s no judgment in her tone; it’s just an observation, but it still makes me feel defensive. “It doesn’t really feel like a choice,” I say flatly. “I feel like I’m going to have a panic attack if I don’t. It’s not like I enjoy sweating in the middle of the summer.”

“Have you tried recently to do anything differently?”

I start to say no, which is what Dr. Langan’s expression clearly says she expects, but then I remember the afternoon Clara came over. “I put on a one-piece and went swimming in the pool with my best friend,” I say quietly. “When I was sure there was no one else around.”

Dr. Langan nods approvingly. “That’s very good, Bella. That’s progress.”

“Is it?” I look at her dubiously, and she nods again.

“It is. Do you think you could do it again? Or even alone?” She purses her lips, setting down the pen that she’s been using to take notes. “What about a two-piece. Instead of trying to alter your habits of dressing now around others, what if you worked on it alone? Did you wear two-piece bathing suits, before?”

The topic of conversation is starting to make my stomach clench, but I force myself to nod.

“Do you think you could, if you were all alone, now?”

I think she can see the rising panic in my face, because she raises her hands from the pad soothingly, her expression calm. “You don’t have to, Bella. It’s just a thought. If there were absolutely no one to see you, then it would be a step. In your own home, your own backyard. A little bit of progress. Think about it.”

She looks back down at her pad, tapping her pen against it. “Now. Let’s talk about adding medications, or not.”

An hour later, I’ve at least accomplished the most important thing—getting my prescription for the sleeping pills refilled. At least a dozen times, I thought of telling her that I’ve moved out of my childhood home, that I’ve gotten a job, that I’m taking care of two children, that I find my new boss to be uncomfortably attractive, and that while I haven’t had my pills, he’s been letting me sleep in his bed to try to stave off the nightmares. And every time, I stopped myself, because I didn’t know how to explain why that’s all so monumental. That I had, before all of this, never imagined that I would have a job, or any future at all beyond the one my father had planned for me.

So, instead, I just say what I need to in order to get my prescription, and leave.

Clara and I made plans to get lunch while I wait for it to be filled, and Jason drives me to the restaurant, a little French bistro place called L’Duc that Clara found online. I walk in to see her already sitting at a back table, a menu open in front of her, and she waves eagerly as I walk over.

“I’m so sorry,” I tell her, as soon as I sit down, and she frowns at me.

“For what?”

“I haven’t seen you since that whole thing with Gabriel. We haven’t even talked that much. I honestly thought you might be upset with me?—”

“For that?” Clara flaps a hand. “No. Absolutely not. Honestly, I get it. He didn’t know me—still doesn’t—and I was hanging out with his kids. I’d probably be crabby about that, too. It’s honestly not a big deal. And speaking of crabby—” She waves the server over, clearly in a bright mood. “Two glasses of pinot grigio—this one—” she points to a name on the list, “and crab bisque for me, for an appetizer. Bella?”

“Just the chopped salad is fine.” I push the menu away, unsure if I’ll be able to eat anything more than that, even though it technically is an appetizer. “I’m glad you’re not mad at me.”

“I could never be mad at you.” Clara purses her lips. “How are things going?”

I run through all of the things that have happened since then, trying to think of what to tell Clara. There’s so much, and like the appointment with Dr. Langan, I don’t know where to begin.

“Bella, are you okay?” I don’t realize how long I’ve been silent until Clara’s slightly worried voice cuts through my thoughts. “You look—I don’t know. Like a million things are rattling around up there. Was he pissed that you asked me to come over? Like—really bad?”

I shake my head, swallowing hard. “No.” I bite my lip, wanting to tell her everything, and wondering if I can. If I can unburden myself to someone I care so much about.

But this is my best friend. If there’s anyone in the world I should be able to talk to, it’s her.

“I need to tell you something.” I see the server approaching, and wait for him to drop off our wine and appetizers, before I take a deep breath.

“Okay, Bel, now I’m really worried.”

“No, it’s okay. I mean, it’s not, but—” I suck in another breath, trying not to panic. This is the kind of thing that Dr. Langan would call good progress . And even though I haven’t felt like my appointments with her have helped all that much, this might.

If I can talk to Gabriel, I can talk to Clara.

“I’m listening, whatever it is,” Clara says softly, and that gives me enough confidence to speak.

“Something really bad happened to me, four months ago. The clothes?” I hold up my arms, swathed in the too-warm sweatshirt. “It’s not an iron deficiency, or any kind of health thing. And that engagement I told you about? It was broken because—” I suck in another breath. “Because my fiancé locked everyone in the church and tried to murder as many members of the mafia as he could. He kidnapped me, took me to a hotel, and—” I try to swallow, but my mouth is dry, and I reach for my wine, taking a large gulp of it. Clara is staring at me, wide-eyed, in horror. It’s exactly the look I expected, but at least it’s not disbelief.

“They hurt me,” I say softly. “Not the—not the worst thing, but a lot of bad things. That’s why I cover up. Why I don’t want to hug anyone anymore, and I seem panicky sometimes. Why I really, really don’t want to end up married to another stranger.”

Clara makes a shocked, scoffing noise in the back of her throat. “Are you kidding me?” she gasps. “Only an absolute monster would try to make you marry a stranger after that. I’m sorry, Bel, I know that’s your dad, but—” She starts to reach out to touch my hand, and then abruptly pulls hers back. “I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine—I can’t believe that happened to you. I mean, I do believe you, but?—”

“No, I know. I know it sounds insane. Like a different world. Even just staying with Gabriel, who tries to keep things more normal, it feels like a different world now. And I don’t want to go back.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” Clara says vehemently. “Bella, we’ll find a way?—”

“That’s the thing.” I take another gulp of my wine, my salad ignored. Clara hasn’t taken so much of a bite of her soup, either. “Gabriel, he?—”

“What?” Clara’s eyes are alight with way interest. “What did he do?”

I blurt out everything. The nightmares that started the night we argued because I didn’t have my pills, my father showing up, the bank accounts, the driving lesson. “He basically made me sleep in his bed because he thought having him close would help with the nightmares. And—it has. A little bit.”

Clara’s eyes go round. “Bella, did you?—”

“ No .” I shake my head vehemently. “No. We haven’t—he knows I don’t like to be touched. He put his arms around me that first time, trying to comfort me, but once he figured out that was the wrong thing, he hasn’t touched me since.” I don’t tell her about the moment that I thought he was going to kiss me in the living room, or any of the charged, tense moments that we’ve had since then.

All the same, I can see her picking up on what I don’t want to admit. “Bella, it seems like there’s something there,” Clara says gently, finally picking up her spoon to take a bite of her soup. I try, tentatively, to manage a little of the salad. I can’t imagine even half a glass of wine on an empty stomach is a good thing, especially since I rarely drink.

I shake my head. “No, it’s nothing like that.”

“Bel. Come on.” Clara shakes her head at me. “He went over your dad’s head to open bank accounts for you? Asked you to sleep in his bed to keep an eye on you? He’s teaching you how to drive? What does that sound like to you?”

I shake my head again, more firmly this time. I didn’t even tell her about the dinner after the driving lesson. I know how far she’d run with that, and I can’t let myself think there’s a possibility. I can’t open myself up to this, to him , or I’ll be asking to allow myself to be hurt in ways I don’t know if I can tolerate, ways that I’m not ready to risk. “He has a daughter,” I say thickly. “He’s just thinking of what he’d want someone to do for her, if?—”

Clara snorts, dropping her spoon. “Bella. How old is he? Five, six years older than you?”

Slowly, I nod, and she gives me a pointed look. “He’s not thinking of you like his daughter . I’d bet he’s not even thinking of you as just an employee. Or a friend. You’re telling me there’s been no spark? No feeling? No tension? You’re sleeping in his bed ? — ”

“Not anymore,” I mumble. “My pills are getting filled now, so there’s no need.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “You sound disappointed. Bella, don’t lie to me.”

I let out a slow breath. I don’t want to lie to her, especially, of all people. But I don’t know what to say, and I don’t want to keep going down this path. I don’t want to keep thinking about things I can’t have. “Even if there was a spark,” I say finally, “even if either of us did feel something, it doesn’t matter. There’s no way he wants someone who is such an emotional mess. Who has nightmares and panic attacks and is terrified of intimacy, terrified of being touched. Clara—” I shake my head. “I’ve never been kissed. I don’t know if I ever will be, now. If I can even tolerate that, let alone everything that comes after it. What man wants to get close—like that—to someone who might stop it at a kiss, or worse, halfway through, because she’s about to melt down? Who might have a panic attack in the middle of sex? No man wants to deal with that. Not even Gabriel.”

I expect her to leave it at that, or even to agree with me, but Clara gives me a long, considering look. “I know you’ve grown up with a lot of shitty men,” she says finally. “And I’ll be the first to agree that most of them are trash. But there are some good ones out there, Bella. Gabriel sounds like he might be one. And you might be doing him a disservice by deciding for him that that’s too much for him to handle.”

The simple, obvious way she says it sets my heart racing, and I know I have to shut down that flicker of hope, hard.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say again, firmly. “Because even if that’s true, he’s a widower. And he’s been very clear that he doesn’t want to get into another relationship. So that’s all there is to it.”

“Hm.” Clara takes another small bite of her soup, reaching for her wine glass. “Well, even if that’s true, Bel, that doesn’t mean there might not be some other man out there who thinks you’re worth whatever trouble you think you are. So I wouldn’t write yourself off as someone who will never be kissed, just yet.” She smiles at me. “I think you have a much better future ahead of you now than you ever have before.”

I hold on to that statement, as we finish up lunch, and I tell Clara goodbye, going back to the car to get my prescription and go back to the house. I’m back later than I expected to be, and I’m exhausted. I know Gabriel will be home soon, and a part of me wants to see him, but I can’t stop myself from falling onto my bed as soon as I walk into my room and falling asleep almost immediately.

It’s dark out when I wake up. I feel sticky and strange from having slept in my clothes atop the bed, and I strip out of my jeans and sweatshirt, throwing my hair up before going to get in the shower to rinse off. I remember Gabriel’s offer to workout after dinner, and gauging by the time, it’ll be after dinner soon. So I put on a pair of leggings and a long-sleeved shirt, throw up my hair in a ponytail, and go downstairs.

Agnes and the kids are cleaning up in the kitchen, and I find Gabriel in the dining room, stacking plates. I clear my throat to avoid startling him, and he turns quickly to see me standing there in the doorway.

It would be impossible to miss the brief second that his face lights up, seeing me there, before it smooths again. And I remember what Clara said.

No, I tell myself, smothering that little bit of hope before it could even begin to get out of control. He’s a friend. Nothing more. He’s happy to see you, but it doesn’t mean more than that.

“I’m sorry I missed dinner. I was exhausted, and I ended up taking a very unplanned nap.”

“No worries.” Gabriel smiles. “Are you too tired for a workout?”

I shake my head. “I’m very awake now. And already dressed for it, if you didn’t notice.”

It comes out more like a flirtation than I meant for it to, the words plainly more than what an employee should say to her boss. I see the way Gabriel hesitates, as if carefully choosing his words, making sure that he doesn’t make the same mistake. And yet, the fact that he has to choose them at all says something, in and of itself.

“You are,” he says finally. “Come on. We’ll run through the same stuff we did yesterday.”

He’s careful not to touch me, I notice, when we get down to the basement and begin. Careful not to get too close, even, the way he did yesterday morning. I can’t help but wonder if he came to the same conclusion that I did last night—that now that I won’t need to sleep in his bed any longer, it’s best for us to put some space between ourselves. To re-establish the professional, working relationship that this is supposed to be.

Gabriel stays a good distance away from me while I stretch, while he runs through demonstrating the moves on the boxing bag for me again, while he watches me attempt them. I’m a little smoother at it this time, and I try to ignore the warm feeling in the pit of my stomach when he praises me.

“This was good,” he says, when I’m sweaty and tired, my muscles aching from running through the drills, and probably in need of another shower. “We’ll keep at this a while longer.” Gabriel hesitates then, looking at me. “If I’m really going to teach you self-defense, though—I’m going to have to touch you eventually, Bella. You’ll need to learn blocks, things like that. Some of it can be done with pads—I’ll hold them up, and you punch, kick, all of that. But it’s inevitable that we’re going to touch at some point. Not like—wrestling on the mats or anything,” he adds quickly, a flush rising in his throat. “But some contact is unavoidable.”

My pulse quickens. I know what Dr. Langan would say. Progress. And I know what Clara would say, too. It would be a very different opinion of what’s happening here.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” I manage. “The drills for now, and then?—”

Gabriel nods, and I can see that he’s pleased that I didn’t entirely shut him down. But why? I tell myself it’s because he wants me to be safe, and nothing else. Not because he wants an excuse to touch me. Not because he wants to be closer. Because he’s a good boss. A good friend. He’s concerned for my welfare.

I go back up to my room, into the shower again, and change into pajama pants and a long-sleeved shirt, like usual. The new prescription bottle is in my side table, filled with a month’s worth of pills, ready for me to get a full night’s sleep in my own bed. I open the drawer and look at them, swallowing hard.

I’m not tired enough to fall asleep on my own, after the nap, but the pills would take care of that easily. The problem is?—

Do I want to take them?

Of course I do, I tell myself sternly. They mean a good night’s sleep, no nightmares, no disturbing anyone in the house. I have to get back to my routine tomorrow, back to work, and they will ensure that there are no hiccups when it comes to that. Gabriel has been patient with me, but I shouldn’t test that patience. I should do everything I need to, in order to make sure that I’m doing my part to not burden him or anyone else with my problems.

I can hear Clara’s voice in my head, as soon as I think it. What if he wants to be ‘burdened’ with them? What if he wants to help you?

What if he could?

The nap and the workout has me keyed up, and I lie there in bed, staring up at the ceiling for too long. Finally, I push back the covers and sit up, unsure of what I’m really thinking about doing.

I think about what Dr. Langan said in the appointment. About the swimming. The bathing suit. About trying it when no one could see me.

The house is quiet, and it’s late. It’s dark outside. Everyone is asleep. There’s no better chance of trying to follow her advice when no one can see me than right now.

My heart picks up pace in my chest, the itchy feeling that comes before a panic attack tingling along my skin. I think of Gabriel asking me if I always want to be dependent on the pills. If I want to try to do the things that will help.

I am trying. I’ve started doing the workouts with him. I took the driving lesson. I want to feel independent. In control. Like I can keep anything terrible from happening to myself ever again.

But I want to do more. I don’t want to have to drug myself into a stupor to keep from having nightmares forever.

I stand up, walking to my dresser. I honestly have no idea why I brought any two-piece bathing suits with me at all, but there is one in my upper drawer. I definitely never thought I’d wear it again. But maybe some small part of my mind, in the very back of it, was hopeful.

It’s very simple—a black balconette top with thin straps, and a black bottom that ties on the side. Swallowing hard, I slowly slide out of my sleep clothes, and into the bikini.

My heart is pounding, and I’m just in my room. No one will see me here. But no one can see me on the walk to the pool, either.

I grab my jeans and a different sweatshirt, pulling them on over the bathing suit, shoving my feet back into my sneakers. And then quietly, very quietly, I step out into the hall.

The house is utterly silent. I walk to the staircase, stepping carefully to avoid any creaks, not wanting to wake anyone. Especially Gabriel, who deserves a good night’s sleep after the ones I’ve cost him. But I manage to make it to the kitchen, and the back door there, without alerting anyone or waking them up.

It’s a warm night outside, cloudless—a beautiful night, far enough out from the city that I can see the canopy of stars overhead. A shiver runs over me despite the warmth, but I push forward, walking quickly out to the pool deck.

There’s no better moment than this—alone, at night, with nothing but the quiet hum of the darkness around me and my own thoughts. Those thoughts aren’t the best company, but I focus on one thing, over and over—I can do this.

And if I can do this, what else is possible?

I never thought about going swimming at night before, but it’s remarkably peaceful. The moonlight reflects off of the dark, still water in the pool, the pool house a shadow at the far end, the lounge chairs neatly silhouetted alongside. I walk over to one of them, taking a deep breath.

I’m all alone. No one is stirring, not in the main house or in the cottage half a mile across the estate, where Agnes and Aldo are peacefully sleeping. I can do this.

I reach for the hem of my sweatshirt, and pull it over my head.