32. Chapter 32 Spilling Truths
Jenna: January
Doves frantically flying.
Shadows chasing. Masked man pulling.
Screams echo through the dark sky.
Drip. Drip.
The bridge stretches endlessly.
The ground shifts beneath me.
I’m running. Almost there…
Falling.
Drip. Drip. Cold. Wet.
I didn’t make it.
The birds… now black crows… turn to stone.
Cold. Lifeless. Frozen mid-flight.
Eyes hollow. Watching.
Drip. Drip.
Water turns to alcohol.
My throat burns. I can’t breathe.
Screams ripple, distorting into nothing.
Just darkness.
Drenched in sweat, I jolt awake. My hand instinctively reaches for my throat before my brain registers this is not real. The crash of waves pulls me back—Bali. Not home. Even in this tropical paradise, I can’t escape myself. I can’t outrun the chaos I created.
Jacob turns over, absentmindedly patting my head like I’m a child or our pet dog. “You okay?”
I nod but don’t answer. He means well, but in moments like these, I need more than a pat on the head.
I need him to hold me. To tell me he hates seeing me suffer.
To tell me what he knows. But no, he’s a closed book.
Affection reserved only for sex or in bed.
Conversations limited to bills, school stuff, and politics.
His love? Distant. Surface-level shit with no depth in sight.
“Who do you think this masked man in my dreams is?” My voice wavers, but I push through.
Maybe vacation isn’t the right time to say this, but the words tumble out faster than I can think.
“I can’t keep doing this, waking up in a panic.
Should I check myself into a psych ward to figure out what the hell is happening to me? ”
Jacob sighs, rubbing a hand over his face like he’s already exhausted by the conversation… and me. “Really? I bring you to this beautiful place to reconnect, and you’re what, picking a fight? Trying to ruin our trip?”
His words cut through me, sharp and dismissive. “Wow. So now I’m ruining our trip just for asking questions? For not being able to control what happens in my sleep?”
“For God’s sake, Jenna.” Jacob’s voice rises. “We’ve had this conversation a million times. We’re in paradise, and you’re still dragging this up. Just let it go!”
I can taste my tears as I bolt to the bathroom, slamming the door behind me.
“Jenna.” He knocks. “Open the door. Can we just talk?”
“Talk about what? The news? Work?” I say, pressure building in my chest. “These dreams—they mean something. And I know you’re hiding something.”
Silence.
“I’m tired,” I whisper. “Just leave me alone.”
I hear him exhale, slow and heavy, through the thin walls. “I am too. I’m sorry about the nightmares. I wish I had answers for you. I just… I don’t know what you want from me.”
I think I want out .
The thought escapes in a breath, like a quiet death sentence I’m trying to accept.
Then nothing. No plea. No anger. Just the sound of Jacob’s footsteps walking away.
I slide down the door, my cheek pressing against the tile.
Hello, cold tile. My old friend. We always meet like this.
Memories flood in. Sixteen years old, screaming into the void, begging God to fix me. Ryan. My dad. All of it.
Then another image hits—Izzy’s bathroom. The room spins. I’m dizzy, nauseated. Jacob’s there. A feeling of dread. I remember nothing else.
I think I gave up on God that night. But maybe that’s when I needed Him the most. Maybe that’s where faith was supposed to begin.
Twenty years later, in a different country, in a different bathroom, but still with the same ache. I squeeze my eyes shut and let it all pour out, the numbness replaced by raw, uncontrollable emotion.
Do I leave Jacob? Do I rip my life apart?
A knock at the door cuts through my spiral.
“Jenna, are you okay?” Jacob’s voice is tight, impatient.
“What happened that night?” I finally ask, voice wrecked.
“What are you talking about now? Why are you asking this?” His voice cracks. “You were drunk…” He hesitates. “You passed out. I got you home safe. That’s it.”
My stomach churns as I drag myself up.
“Can we please talk about this at home and enjoy the trip? I’ve got tee time booked, then we have a couples massage after.”
I don’t respond. Eventually, I hear the door shut.
I fixate on the mirror. A stranger stares back. A beautiful mess. A divorced woman? Or an unhappily married one? Who am I right now? Who do I want to be?
The river in my eyes swells into a tsunami. These nightmares need to stop. The agonizing back-and-forth decisions. The craving for that escape, even when I’m on the other side of the world.
I grab my phone and dial the number Dylan gave me for his sister’s therapist.
It rings once. Twice. I almost change my mind and hang up. “Hello, Jane speaking.”
“Hi, this is Jenna. I wanted to ask about setting up an appointment.”
Her voice is soft and calm. “Of course. Can you tell me what type of support you’re looking for?”
Fuck. What kind of question is that? Is this what I’m signing up for? Endless questions in therapy for an hour?
This is a bad idea.
“I know. It’s a tough question,” she says gently. “Let’s start small. Tell me one thing weighing on you. No pressure. Stop anytime.”
I suck in a breath. Where do I begin?
“I’m haunted by nightmares that make me feel like I’m losing my mind.
My father left me a legacy of abandonment issues.
I feel like I’ve been stuck for years, frozen in a marriage where I can’t decide whether to stay or leave.
I ended a relationship with a man who made me feel incredible, a man who isn’t my husband.
And even though I know it’s over—and probably for the best—I can’t stop obsessing over him. ”
I let out a deep breath. Shit, this girl is good.
“The cherry on top? I think I’m cursed, and the universe is punishing me. So good luck trying to help me!” I laugh, even though nothing about this is funny.
The line goes quiet before she answers, her voice calm but firm. “That’s some heavy stuff, Jenna. I’m not going to feed you some bullshit lines like ‘everything happens for a reason.’ Your situation sucks. Period. But no one should have to go through that alone.”
“ Wait, are therapists even allowed to swear?” I let out a dry laugh, oddly comforted.
“As long as you’re okay with it, then yes. I want this to be a place unfiltered. Real. And I’m not here to ‘fix’ you, because you’re not something beyond repair. But I can give you tools, and we'll figure this out together like a team. Make sense?”
I give a small nod, even if she can’t see me. Then she offers simple suggestions. Breathing and grounding exercises. Journaling. Mindfulness meditation.
When we end the call, I follow her advice. I take a pad of paper out to the balcony, where humid air clings to my skin and the sun glows over a calm ocean. And I begin to dump the noise in my head onto paper. I write and I write and I write until the ink smears with my salty tears.
Dear Universe, God… Whoever is listening,
I’m asking—no, begging. Give me guidance.
Clarity. Strength. Anything. It feels like there’s a monster living inside me, tearing me apart.
But I can’t keep hiding from it. My marriage is a ticking time bomb.
I never know when it’ll detonate. I can hear it in the silence, in every argument, every word I don’t say.
And I think I gave up on us a long time ago.
Maybe it wasn’t a conscious decision, but somewhere along the way, I stopped believing things could ever change.
I shut down completely. Now, I don’t even know how to find my way back.
I’m frozen. Stuck between a past I don’t want and a future I can’t see.
Unable to move forward. Too exhausted to look back.
The more we argue, the quieter I get, and the war inside me grows louder. And I’m losing the battle. I can’t fight anymore. I can’t breathe.
And now I’ve lost Dylan too. I don’t know how to stop missing him. I just… I don’t know how to move. Please, someone kick me in the ass and help me move forward.
I stare at my words, the mess inside my mind, on the outside for me to see. They don’t fix anything. But somehow, they make me feel like there is hope.