Chapter 26
Joy didn’t sleep out in the playhouse that night. But only because she didn’t sleep at all.
Now, she stared up at her ceiling. The blankets were tucked neatly around her, far too neatly for someone who’d actually slept in them, because— news flash —she hadn’t. She’d gone back and forth between her bedroom and the playhouse.
Too chicken to sleep in her own bedroom. Too stubborn to sleep in the playhouse. She hadn’t turned the lights on in either place, had just floated back and forth like a vanquished ghost.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand—probably Bear again. He’d texted three times since their argument last night. First to make sure she’d gotten inside safely. Then to apologize. Finally, to ask if he could come over so they could talk.
She’d responded to the first with a simple “Yes, thank you.” Ignored the second. And answered the third with, “Not tonight. I need to figure stuff out.”
The phone buzzed again. Joy sighed and reached for it.
Good morning. Just checking in. Can we talk today?
She set the phone back down without answering. She wanted to respond, but what was there to say? That she’d spent two nights this week hiding in her playhouse like a frightened child and last night moving like a zombie between there and her house?
That she couldn’t even keep it together enough for her boyfriend to share something as simple as minor theft concerns, and she couldn’t blame him?
“Equal partners,” she muttered, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. “What a joke. I’m not equal in anything.”
She padded to the bathroom and stared at her reflection in the mirror. The dark circles under her eyes had deepened, and her skin looked pale against the dark brown of her hair. She looked like someone who couldn’t handle life—which, apparently, was exactly what Bear thought too.
The unfairness of that thought stung, and she pushed it away. Bear hadn’t kept the break-ins from her because he thought she was weak. He’d done it because he thought she was fragile . The distinction felt important somehow.
But the end result was the same.
She stumbled downstairs, desperate for coffee, and froze in the kitchen doorway. Dirty dishes had accumulated in the sink again. Mail piled on the counter. A half-empty mug of tea from yesterday afternoon, a plate with toast crumbs.
It was happening again. This was how it had started.
“No,” she said, the word sharp in the quiet house.
She grabbed the mug and plate, rinsing them forcefully before loading them into the dishwasher. She attacked the sink next, scrubbing like it had personally offended her. By the time she started on the counter, she was breathing hard—not from exertion but from anger.
Anger at herself.
“This is ridiculous,” she muttered, yanking open a drawer to retrieve a trash bag. “Two nights in the playhouse and you’re already sliding right back to where you started.”
She swept the junk mail into the bag, then moved to the living room. The unread newspapers. The running shoes kicked off by the couch instead of put away in the closet. The growing pile of things to deal with later on her coffee table.
As she gathered those papers, a small cream-colored card fluttered to the floor. Joy stooped to pick it up, turning it over in her hand. Dr. Sierra Diaz, Clinical Psychologist. The therapist she’d seen briefly in the hospital after the attack. The one who’d given her this card with a gentle “Call me anytime. Even if it’s just to talk.” The woman had lived in Oak Creek as long as Joy could remember, although Joy had never had much reason to talk to her.
Joy had nodded and tucked the card away, with zero intention of ever using it. Talking had never been Joy’s thing. She’d always preferred action.
She scrubbed a hand down her face. Action like last night? Roaming from house to shed and back? She needed something different; maybe this was it. She stared at the number, her thumb tracing the embossed letters.
“Don’t be a coward,” she whispered to herself. Before she could talk herself out of it, she grabbed her phone and dialed.
It rang twice before a warm, professional voice answered. “Dr. Diaz’s office.”
“This is Joy Davis. I, um… I saw Dr. Diaz briefly about six weeks ago, when I was in the hospital.” She swallowed hard. “She gave me this number and said I could call anytime.”
“Of course. Let me see if Dr. Diaz is available.”
Joy sank onto the couch, heart pounding. She hadn’t planned this. Didn’t know what she was going to say.
“Joy?” Dr. Diaz’s voice came through the phone, exactly as she remembered it—calm, steady, with just enough warmth to cut through clinical distance. “I’m so glad you called.”
“I wasn’t sure you would even remember me.”
“Of course I do.”
“I’m sorry for just— I don’t have an appointment or anything?—”
“You did exactly the right thing. This is why I gave you my card with this specific number. It’s a private line.” A pause. “How are you doing?”
The simple question, asked with genuine concern, nearly undid her. Joy pressed her lips together, fighting the sudden burn of tears.
“Not great. I thought I was. I cleaned my house, moved back in.” God, that probably didn’t even make sense without the backstory. Her voice caught. “I can’t seem to stay actually fixed, though.”
“ Fixed is an interesting word choice,” Dr. Diaz noted. “It implies something was broken.”
“Wasn’t I?” Joy asked, quieter now. “I was sleeping out in my playhouse for over a month and even now can’t always bear to be inside my house. So yeah, I think I was broken. Think I still am.”
“Traumatized, yes. Healing, certainly. But broken? I don’t think so.” Papers rustled in the background. “Can you tell me what’s happening that has you feeling this way?”
Joy exhaled shakily. “It took some time, but I thought I was getting better. But now, I seem to be regressing.” She explained about the playhouse, how she’d ended up back in there the past couple nights, and how frustrating that was. Especially given how proud she’d been about Velvet Mornings and the success at the food truck festival.
“And then…” She let out an exhausted sigh. “My boyfriend kept information from me about some break-ins around town because he thought I couldn’t handle it. And I can’t even be mad at him because he was right. One hint of trouble and I’m right back to being terrified.”
“Let’s separate these issues,” Dr. Diaz suggested. “First, returning to protective behaviors during periods of stress is extremely common with trauma recovery. It doesn’t mean you haven’t made progress.”
“It feels like failure.”
“Recovery isn’t linear. There are steps forward and back.”
Joy sighed. “Bear said almost the exact same thing.”
“Ah, Bear. The Bollingers are pretty wise as a whole.” Joy wasn’t surprised to find out Dr. Diaz knew the Bollingers. Everybody in Oak Creek knew them. “But let’s talk about him withholding information. How did that make you feel when you found out?”
“Angry,” Joy admitted immediately. “Hurt. Like he doesn’t see me as an equal. Like he thinks I’m too fragile to handle basic truth.”
“Have you told him that?”
“No. I was too busy proving him right by freaking out and sleeping in my playhouse.”
Dr. Diaz’s laugh was gentle. “So, he thinks you’re fragile, and you’re worried he’s right. But you’re also angry that he sees you that way, because somewhere inside you, you know you’re not permanently fragile . Those are opposing feelings—and they always will cause conflict.”
Joy blinked, considering that. “I guess so.”
“So, taking out the protective behavior of wanting to sleep in the playhouse, which one feels more true to you overall right now? Do you feel more that you’re broken or fragile or whatever label you want to give it, or more that you’re not ?”
Joy thought about the night before—how instead of freezing when the break-in happened, she’d taken inventory. Called Callum. Stayed calm. She thought about the food truck festival, the success of Velvet Mornings, the way she’d been rebuilding her life piece by piece.
“I’m not broken,” she said finally, the conviction in her voice surprising even herself. “I’m healing. Maybe I’m not doing it perfectly, but I’m doing it.”
“That sounds accurate to me.” Dr. Diaz’s voice held a smile. “And I would encourage you to continue doing the things that make you feel like you’re healing.”
“Like what?”
“Let’s start with your food truck. When were you thinking of rolling out Velvet Mornings in Oak Creek?”
Joy grimaced. “Honestly, I don’t have any set plans. It’s ready. I just need to do it. I was thinking sometime in the next month or two.”
“Why wait that long?” Dr. Diaz asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You just said it was ready. What are you waiting for? In a couple months, we’ll be in the dead of winter. Why not now?”
Joy admitted the truth. “Velvet Mornings is different from what people would expect from me. I think I’m a little nervous.”
“Is the food good?”
“Hell yes, it is.” That much, Joy knew for certain.
“Then I think you should do it sooner rather than later. Get it out there as soon as you can so that anxiety doesn’t have a hold on you anymore.”
“Let me think about it.” Was she really ready? She’d talked to Hudson about reducing her hours, but could she do this?
“Deal. Ultimately, you know yourself best. Listen to yourself.”
“Okay. I will.” That meant having to trust herself. But that was the point, wasn’t it?
“That’s all you can do. Would you like to come in for a proper session? I know you probably don’t think therapy is your style, but I think you would find it helps. I have an opening Tuesday morning.”
“Yes,” Joy said immediately. “I think I would.”
After they scheduled the appointment and said goodbye, Joy sat on her couch, the phone still in her hand. The house felt different somehow—not completely safe yet, but not actively threatening either. It was just a house. Her house.
She felt better. Yes, she and Bear had to talk. Had to talk more fully about sharing the load between them. She appreciated his protectiveness and knew she still needed it. Might always need it.
But she wanted to be strong for him too, and she could do that. He couldn’t always shoulder everything himself and never share the weight. That wasn’t fair to either of them.
They would talk and work through this. What they had together was too important to lose.
But first, it was time to introduce Velvet Mornings to Oak Creek. Dr. Diaz was right. No more stalling.