Chapter 21
Jolee
I close my phone as the cab carries me back toward my apartment, the city sliding past the windows in a blur of gray and noise.
I texted Clay to let him know I was heading home and that he didn’t need to pick me up.
I don’t have the energy for town, errands, or pretending I’m fine.
He can drop my bag off whenever he wants.
The doctor says I don’t have to wear the god-awful boot anymore.
I should be relieved. I am relieved. Mostly.
I still need a supportive shoe for a few more weeks, and my shoulder has been feeling better every day.
The headaches have been nonexistent, too.
But the worst news is that I’m cleared to go back to work.
I’m not ready.
It isn’t the job or the people. I love my job. I love Star. It’s the warehouse. It’s the way the memories live in the walls, in the corners of my mind. The nightmares of Star’s stalker taking me, using me as bait, and trying to break the last pieces of me.
I realize, suddenly, that I haven’t had a single nightmare since staying at Clay and Grant’s house. They fucked my memory blank, another kind of therapy, I guess. But it was more than sex. I felt safe there. Truly safe. My body knew it before my mind caught up.
And that scares the shit out of me.
Still, I had to come home. It was fun while it lasted.
More than fun, actually. I learned that I like sex.
I really like sex. That orgasms can be mind-blowing, not something to get through or avoid.
They have no idea how big that was for me.
How much trust it took to let myself go like that. To let them see me.
Dating, though? I can’t see myself doing that. Not yet. And dating them—that’s not even an option, right? They’re married. Happy. Solid. I don’t fit into that picture, no matter how much my mind tries to wander there.
My thoughts are uncontrollable when it comes to them.
The cab pulls up to my building. I pay, step out, and gather my mail before heading inside. The hallway smells faintly like old carpet and cleaning solution. Familiar. Too familiar.
When I open my apartment door, something feels… off.
This is the first time it doesn’t feel like home. The space is dismal and quiet, the silence pressing in on me. I hesitate in the doorway before forcing myself inside. I tell myself it’s time to move on, to figure out what comes next.
Do I search for a new job?
Do I find a therapist?
Do I sleep for a week and deal with everything later?
That last one sounds dangerously appealing.
I kick on my space heater. Supposedly, my heat is fixed, but there’s still a chill in here. Or am I missing their heat? Dammit, Jo, you need to stop thinking about them.
I look around my apartment with new eyes. It’s functional. Clean. Empty. There are no photos, no personal touches, nothing that hints at who I am. If someone had to pick my place out of a lineup, they couldn’t. Nothing here has me in it.
It’s strange seeing my life this way, like stepping back and realizing how small I’ve made it. That awareness feels like a gift, one Clay and Grant gave me without even realizing it. Maybe they woke me up? Or maybe they just cracked something open that can’t be closed again?
The loneliness settles over me like a heavy blanket. Suffocating. I used to be so good at being alone. Years of it. Now it feels wrong, unsettling, like I’ve forgotten how to breathe this way.
This was never the life I imagined for myself. I thought I’d be married by now. Kids. I pictured staying home with them while they were little. Instead, I work nonstop, run from my fears, from memories, and from everything that hurts.
And now it’s all catching up with me.
I know it’s time to face it, but I don’t even know where to start. Where do I find the strength to dig up everything I’ve buried just to survive?
I might not be working right now, but I’ve always loved a good list. Star used to laugh at me for it. I loved seeing how fast I could knock out her projects, checking things off one by one. This list won’t move as quickly, but at least it’s something. A place to begin.
I sit at my kitchen table with my journal and a pen, staring at the blank page like it’s daring me to do something. I wait for the words to come. They don’t.
Why is this so hard?
Am I afraid?
Writing it down makes it real.
I take a breath.
I can do this.
And then I let it spill out. I stop holding it all in.
Personalize my apartment.
Find a therapist.
Get my hair done.
Buy clothes that I enjoy.
Ask Star for a recommendation letter.
Take a trip.
Start dating.
The last item on the list makes my hand pause.
Date? Why does this keep coming up when I know I’m not ready?
My brain wrote start dating. My heart wanted to write the two men I can’t seem to stop thinking about.
When I’ve worked through my issues—when I’m stronger—I’ll tell them what they did for me. How they helped me get here, whether they meant to or not.
I stand and stretch, staring at the long list that already feels overwhelming. I check my phone. Still nothing.
I guess I won’t be getting a response. I thought Clay might text back. Maybe I wore out his protective streak? Maybe I was just a job to him?
Those thoughts hurt more than I expected.
This is why I need to move forward. I need to start living my life.