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I leaned on the counter, gazing at my reflection. The scar that marred my face mocked me.I can’t lose control again.I learned what happened when I did—at seven years old. The reminder stayed with me. It caused people to flinch and avert their gaze. I used to cover the scar. I thought it’d help me. But it never did, so the ugly mark remained on display. It made it difficult to find someone to love me for me.
I tried from then on to be good. To be perfect.
But bottling up my emotions took its toll on me. I had to find outlets to ease the pressure. Archery. Martial arts. They were what I needed. I could focus all my pent-up energy into them, and it was freeing. I felt strong and powerful, but controlled.
And when those didn’t work, I used my hands to create.
My fingers scraped on the granite counter.I tricked myself into thinking I’d fixed myself.Like many people, I fell into the trap of believing I was better, rather than just coping in ways I shouldn’t. And I was reminded of that the day I almost killed someone.
I didn’t mean to. I just… lost it.
I gazed at my hand and flexed it.Adrenaline, they said.Adrenaline mixed with my training caused me to throw a six foot, two-hundred-and-sixty-pound football player through a brick wall in a fit of absolute rage. I let them believe that. It made it easier to ignore the weird sensation I felt that day—to ignore the fact I’d never laid a finger on him, even though others insisted I had. I shoved it to the back of my mind, to never be revealed to anyone.
And yet, when my anger boiled over today, I felt it again. Some sort of tingling sensation that coiled and slithered like a snake deep inside my body, along my bones, and into my soul. Then it dissipated as Diego calmed me down—just like the time before.His words… they…I shook my head.
I didn’t know if I was crazy, or what, but I couldn’t tell myself it was just my emotions getting to me. I knew what I felt. But how could I tell someone about that? What would I say? That I needed intensive therapy? That I couldn’t help others until I was fixed?
Turning away from the sink, I gazed out one of my windows, past the deck, and to the forest beyond. I couldn’t lose everything I had.
The world out there… it was… tiring. Every time I had to go out, I felt a weight as if I’d lived a thousand lifetimes that only ended in pain. But here… it was peaceful. It was safe from all those feelings. It was home, and I never wanted to leave.But it’s lacking, too… something is… missing…
I closed my eyes and took a controlled breath. I needed to get out of my head. All I would do is spiral out of control, and I couldn’t do that.I’ll contact my therapist to pencil in for a session. I’m long overdue.
A sharp thudding sound echoed outside. I blinked and looked around, but didn’t see what caused it. The sound happened again.Is someone chopping wood?We had a woodpile that we took care of throughout the summer, but it was something my father and Xavier mainly took care of together.
I left the window to dress and do my hair. I wouldn’t know for sure what was up unless I went to check. When I made it halfway down the stairs from the loft, the warm, sugary smell of baking cookies greeted me. An enormous smile tugged at my face. This only meant one thing.
I practically ran down to the kitchen, where a curvy woman with dark umber skin and long, wavy dark hair danced in front of the stove while she pushed a tray of raw dough balls into the oven. A cooling rack with huge freshly baked cookies containing chocolate chips and M&Ms taunted me on the island.
The woman turned around and smiled brightly when she noticed me. She popped an earbud out of her ear. “There you are, Astrid.”
“Good morning, Carrie.”
“Feeling better?”
I winced. “How much do you know?”
She smiled sympathetically. “Only that you had a rough morning, like so many of us have during our journeys to recover. Have a cookie. They’re fresh.”
I wasn’t going to say no, even if they were pity cookies. There was no need for me to feel embarrassed. Most came here to heal. But I knew I was harder on myself because I was the one they looked to for healing, and if I wasn’t fixed, how could they trust me to help them fix themselves?
Nibbling on the cookie, I listened to the sound of the chopping wood again. “Is Diego taking a crack at the woodpile?”
Carrie shook her head. “No, actually he left to head into town. Said he’d be back in an hour or less.”
“Huh.” I didn’t know he’d planned to go into town today. “Then who?”
Couldn’t be Sean. He’d never helped with the woodpile in the years he’d been here.
“It’s that new man, Tyr. He’s been splitting for a good thirty minutes.”
I blinked. I didn’t expect that for an answer. “Are you okay with that?”
Carrie gave a weak smile. “I’m working through it. The baking is helping, and so is listening to music. I think after a few days of adjusting, I’m going to get used to his presence here.”
That was good. More than good for her. Carrie’s particular fears had been quite a challenge over the years. We’d get to a point where she’d make enormous leaps, and then she’d backslide.
Carrie gazed toward the deck windows. “It’s strange. I don’t feel that same urge to run and hide from him, even though he looks so similar to my ex-husband. I’m nervous, yes, but he doesn’t have that threatening aura my mind usually tells me exists.”
