"What if you don't?" Viola countered, and I was thrown off on how confident she was of those words, "What if you're so focused on the potential for harm that you can't see the potential for joy? For connection? For the kind of relationships that actually make life worth living?"
The questions echoed in my mind, mixing with Micah's words from that morning, with Garrett's patient kindness, with Levi's gentle humor, with Oliver's protective stance. All of them offering the same thing in different ways: a chance. A choice. The possibility of something more than the isolated existence I'd built.
"The dinner on Wednesday," I said slowly, admitting something I hadn’t to anyone…maybe I could try to be her friend. I didn’t know if I was fully ready but…I think I could try. "I'm terrified."
"Of course you are. That's normal." Viola stood, moving to refill our coffee cups. "But you're going anyway, right?"
"I told Micah I would try." I told her, though the thought of not showing up had crossed my mind more than once. I wasn’t about to tell her that though.
"Then try." She set the fresh cup in front of me. "Show up. Be yourself—prickly defenses and all. Let them see the real you, and see if they still choose to be there. That's all anyone can ask."
"And if they don't?" It hurt to voice the question, as I thought of such a thing happening. That the connection I had felt with them could break so easily if they wanted it, "If they realize I'm too much work?"
"Then they weren't the right people, and you move on." Viola said it so matter-of-factly, like it was simple. "But Daphne, from everything I've heard, these Alphas aren't looking for easy. They're looking for real. And you're about as real as it gets."
We sat in silence for a while, drinking our coffee. Outside, I could hear birds calling, the familiar sounds of my land that had been my only company for so long. But now, with Viola sitting across from me, the silence felt different. Less lonely. More... companionable.
"Can I tell you what I see when I look at you?" Viola asked eventually as she broke the silence again. She wasn’t going to let this go it seems.
I tensed, not knowing what else she could have to say, "Do I want to know?"
"Probably not, but you need to hear it anyway." She set down her cup, her expression serious. "I see someone who survived things that would have broken most people. Someone who tooknothing and built something beautiful. Someone who's terrified of being hurt but brave enough to keep showing up anyway, even when every instinct is screaming at you to run."
"I don't feel brave," I admitted, as of late I felt more of a coward than anything else.
"Brave people rarely do. They just do the thing anyway." Viola stood, carrying her empty plate to the sink. "You know what the really scary part is? Not the dinner on Wednesday. Not even the possibility of a relationship with the pack."
"What then?" I asked, not knowing what else could be scarier than that to me right now.
"Realizing you've been holding yourself back all this time. That you could have had friendships, connections, community—all of it—if you'd just been willing to risk it." She turned to face me, leaning against the counter. "That's the truly terrifying part. Recognizing that the prison you've been living in is one you built yourself."
The words hit like a physical blow, stealing my breath. Because she was right. God, she was so right it made my chest ache. I'd been so focused on protecting myself from external hurt that I hadn't noticed the internal damage I was causing. The slow suffocation of a life lived in complete isolation.
"I don't know how to change," I whispered, glancing down at the table. My eyes tracing over the marks and grooves embedded in the scarred wood.
"You already are changing. This conversation? This is change. Accepting Micah's visit this morning instead of turning him away? That's change. Agreeing to dinner on Wednesday even though it terrifies you? Change." Viola moved back to the table, crouching beside my chair so we were eye level. "You don't have to transform overnight, Daphne. You just have to take the next small step. And then the one after that. And the one after that."
"One step at a time," I echoed, remembering Micah's words.
"Exactly." She stood, squeezing my shoulder gently. "Now, I need to head out—I've got a shift at the bar tonight. But I want you to promise me something."
"What?" I blinked at her, a bit weary of what else she could ask of me. We had been going over emotion after emotion this morning. Opening old wounds I didn’t want to go through, but here we were.
"That you'll actually try on Wednesday. That you won't sabotage yourself before you even walk in the door. That you'll give them—and yourself—a real chance." Her eyes were intense, demanding honesty.
"I'll try," I said, and this time I meant it. "I can't promise I won't panic or mess up, but I'll try."
"That's all anyone can ask." Viola grabbed her keys from the counter, then paused at the door. "Oh, and Daphne? My number's on a card in the pie basket. Use it. Call me, text me, whatever. Not just when you're in town, but whenever. Because friends check in with each other. That's what they do.”
She left before I could respond, the door clicking shut behind her with a finality that felt significant. I sat at my table for a long time after she'd gone, staring at the half-eaten pie and the cold coffee, processing everything she'd said. She was right about all of it. Every uncomfortable truth, every observation about my self-imposed isolation. I had been keeping everyone at a distance—not just the pack, but everyone. I'd convinced myself it was self-preservation, but really it was just... fear. Fear dressed up as independence.
I stood finally, moving to clean up the remnants of our impromptu coffee and pie session. As I washed the dishes, I found myself looking out the window toward the road that led to the pack's property. Toward people who'd somehow, despite all my defenses, managed to slip past my walls.
Viola's card was indeed in the pie basket—a simple business card with her name and number printed neatly. I held it for a moment, this tiny piece of proof that someone wanted to be my friend, wanted connection beyond surface-level interactions.
I could throw it away. Could maintain the status quo. Could keep everyone at arm's length where they couldn't hurt me but also couldn't really know me.
Or I could try.
