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Forcing my limbs to cooperate, I dragged myself out of bed and into the bathroom to splash my face with cold water, hoping to wash away the images still plaguing me. Once I felt a bit more stable, I moved down the hall toward Cash’s room.
The door was partially opened, a nightlight casting a dull orange glow through the room. The door creaked as I pushed it open enough to peek inside. Cash lay in his little bed, the sheets and comforter covered in police cars and fire engines kicked off and hanging down to the floor. He was dead asleep, his lips partly open and pursed as he slept, his little chest rising and falling.
He was safe, asleep in his bed, without a care in the world, asleep because he knew I was there to make it so. That was an incredible responsibility and it made me feel ten feet tall at the same time it terrified me, because I knew there was a chance I could fail. I had before.
Letting out a shaky breath, I closed the door and moved to the kitchen, yanking the back door open and stepping close to let the cold air blow across my fevered skin.
I’d have given anything for a beer, or, hell, half a goddamn bottle of whiskey, but that wasn’t an option.
I was going to have to find a new way to deal with the nightmares. I just hoped, whatever I came up with would be enough.
Chapter
Eight
DEVA
I staredat myself in the bathroom mirror, anxiety and excitement warring inside me until I felt like ants were crawling beneath my skin.
I felt like I was looking at a complete stranger, the reflection staring back at me barely recognizable.
I had the same eyes, the same red hair and dimples, sure. But it was amazing what a new wardrobe could do. Especially when the clothes were designed to fit, not hide.
A knock on the door to my room gave me a start, and I jolted out of my daze just as Myra called out, “You decent, honey?”
“Yeah, Myra. Come on in.” The door creaked open a second later. Myra came through the bedroom and stopped in the open doorway of the connecting bathroom. She clasped her hands in front of her chest. “Well, look at you. You look beautiful, darlin’.”
I had to press my palms against my belly to try and settle the butterflies that had taken flight. “Are you sure? It’s not... too much?”
The jeans felt strange against my body. It was a fabric I couldn’t recall having ever worn before. They fit tight to my legs and rear end, holding me in in a way that almost felt like a hugbefore flaring out just a bit below the knee. Myra had called them boot cut, explaining the origins of that name as she loaded me up with several pairs and all but shoved me toward the dressing rooms at the back of the second store we visited.
The owner of the boutique had insisted they fit me perfectly when I voiced that I thought they might be too tight, and Myra had agreed whole-heartedly.
The blouse I was wearing had a square neckline and puffy sleeves that Myra had referred to as fun and feminine. The material was a familiar cotton, but instead of being a boring, drab shade of taupe, it was covered in tiny pink, blue, and yellow flowers with deep green leaves. It had a band around my chest that nipped it in below my breasts before floating out from there all the way down to my hips.
The only thing I could say I felt comfortable in were the shoes. My sandals had two white leather straps that crisscrossed over the top of my foot and had a beautiful gold medallion in the center. They were pretty, and a lot less intimidating than some of the higher heels Myra had insisted I buy. Truth be told, I wasn’t even sure I’d be able to walk in half of what she’d bought, but she’d been so excited I hadn’t been able to turn her down every time she held up something new.
“Are you kidding?” She came up beside me and stared at my reflection. “Absolutely not. You’re gorgeous, Deva. Inside and out.” She curled her top lip up at the memory of something. “Even when you were forced to hide behind all those hideous clothes.”
I let out a little giggle at the intensity of her statement. She’d hated my old clothes to the point she’d insisted we take the dress I’d worn for the interview, the only article of clothing I’d left the Oakes’s with, and light it on fire, sending the “toxic vibes”—whatever those were—into smoke that would float into the ether before disappearing.
So that was exactly what we’d done.
Beneath a star-speckled night sky, we’d taken the dress and the ugly flats out to the fire pit Bennett had built in the backyard and lit the offending items on fire. Then, for the first time in my life, I drank a glass of wine in celebration as we laughed and hooted and rid ourselves of the lingering effects of the Fellowship. And I refused to feel the slightest hint of guilt for partaking in something I’d been told time and time again was a sin that would lead me straight down the path to Hell.
I had to say, I really enjoyed the taste of red wine, almost as much as I’d enjoyed coffee. It made me giggly and floaty and warm, inside and out, but I hadn’t been a fan of the headache that followed when I’d woken up earlier. Though, I wasn’t quite willing to give up on it just yet. Bennett had assured me—some time during the happy little inebriated dance party—that I would build up enough of a tolerance not to feel the pain the following morning.
I had to say, though, it felt really,reallygood to burn those clothes. As they disintegrated into ash, the smoke pluming and traveling upward to blend in with the dark night sky, a lightness came over me, like I was shedding a toxic skin that never really fit right. It was the first time I really believed that my life had shifted course. I took my first full breath as I stared up at the beauty of the stars and felt it.
I truly was free.
I still felt that when I woke up before the sun this morning, my anxiousness at my new job making it impossible to go back to sleep. Even with the slight hangover, I was giddy that I’d finally,finallyachieved something I thought for the longest time was nothing more than a fantasy. But as the minutes turned to hours, each ticking by faster than usual, that giddiness had turned into full-blown nerves.
“Here, I brought you this.” Myra placed the mug she’d been holding onto the bathroom counter in front of me. “It’s not as good as Hot Java’s, but I think you’ll still like it.”
I picked up the mug, reading the words painted on the front; “My house. My Rules. My Coffee.” and smiled before bringing it to my lips for that first sip. It tasted like warm vanilla and cinnamon over the pleasantly bitter notes from the coffee beans.
It was an instant caffeine hit, one I hadn’t realized I desperately needed until just then. “This is great. Thank you so much.”
