Chapter 32
EIGHT MONTHS LATER
I ’m grateful for the mild November , so I can still get on my bike and feel the breeze hit my face as my hair whips around me, tickling my nose.
It’s the little things that make me smile.
I pull up to the quaint, downtown coffee shop, locking my bicycle to the metal rack and smoothing down my windblown hair.
It’s been an exhausting week at work, wrapping up first quarter assignments and prepping for exams before we head into Thanksgiving break.
I’ve been looking forward to our monthly coffee date ever since my alarm clock tore me from an idyllic dream this morning, consisting of sand in my toes and his laughter dancing off each rippling wave.
I shake the reverie away, adjusting my sweater dress and plucking a rebel leaf from my knee-high boot. I sling my purse strap over one shoulder and push through the entry door, casing the small café for my dates.
“Cora!”
I glance to my left, spotting them in a corner booth, and I wave with a smile. “Sorry I’m late,” I say, still slightly out of breath from the five mile trek. “I hopped on my bike last minute—the weather was too nice.”
Tabitha beams up at me as I approach the cozy booth. “Only you could pull off looking like a movie star after a twenty-minute cardio session.”
“Hardly. I flashed a dozen people on the way over and ate half my hair,” I tease.
I tug my V-neck sweater dress down, regretting the fashion choice, as I slip into the seat.
I shift my gaze to baby Hope, who is still secured inside her car seat, playing with the dangling rattles and toys in front of her. “She’s getting so big.”
“She just turned ten months on Tuesday. It’s wild, right?”
“Wow.” The baby is absolutely gorgeous with tufts of silky black hair, just like her mother’s.
Her eyes are like sapphires, her cheeks round and pink.
I look back to Tabitha across the table and find her gazing at me with a thoughtful expression.
“What? Is there a bug in my hair?” I frantically swipe at my golden blonde tresses, while Tabitha laughs at me.
“You’re bug-free. I was just admiring you.”
I lower my arms, my features relaxing. “Oh.”
“You’re absolutely glowing, Cora. You look incredible,” she tells me, folding her hands around her coffee cup and tilting her head to the side, studying me further. “I’m proud of you.”
I let her words wash through me like a calming cleanse, my own smile blooming. The truth is, I feel incredible. Lighter. Softer. Free and weightless.
The last eight months have been nothing short of challenging, filled with uphill battles, hours upon hours of counseling and mental health struggles, and a promise to myself every single morning that I will be better than I was the day before.
I joined a meetup group for PTSD survivors and have made an abundance of new friends and kindred spirits.
I took up bike riding as a form of therapy and have put on a healthy amount of weight and muscle mass, spiking my confidence levels and prompting me to splurge on a new wardrobe.
I have monthly coffee dates with Tabitha, weekly dinners with my parents—along with Mandy and her new boyfriend—and regular girly movie nights with Lily and the occasional coworker.
I take my dogs for a long walk every morning.
I picked up summer hours at the school to keep myself busy and distracted.
I listen to inspirational podcasts and audiobooks. I drink smoothies. I take my vitamins.
I even got a tattoo.
I won’t lie and say things are perfect now.
I still have nightmares. I still sleep with the light on because the dark makes me uneasy.
I still jump when someone touches me in an unfamiliar way, and I still mentally retreat sometimes, zoning out in the middle of a conversation when I don’t even realize it.
And… I still miss him.
But I’m healing. I’m learning. I’m growing. And there’s no going back to the person I was eight months ago—not ever .
“Thank you,” I reply softly, tucking a lock of recently highlighted hair behind my ear. “You look great, too. I swear you get prettier every time I see you.”
Her cheeks fill with rosy blush as she ducks her head, then nods to the lone coffee sitting beside me. “I ordered for you.”
“Ooh, thank you.” I reach for the drink, bringing it to my lips and sighing deep. “Vanilla cappuccino with an extra shot of espresso. You’re my hero.”
It really is the little things.
Tabitha fiddles with one of her loose bracelets as she eyes my wrist. “Your tattoo looks great. It healed up nicely.”
I glance down at the simple design peeking out from under my long sleeve.
I lift my arm to give her a better look, grazing the pad of my thumb over my pulse point.
It’s a heartbeat tattoo, a little EKG symbol, etched across the tiny scars I carved into my wrist with my own fingernails.
It’s drawn along the exact spot Dean would comfort me, giving me a daily reminder of everything I’ve suffered through and have overcome.
It’s trained me to stop scratching myself—an anxious habit I picked up post-rescue. And, well… it makes me think of him.
“Thanks,” I say. “I love it. It keeps me present—in the moment, you know?”
She nods. “I’ve been thinking about getting a tattoo to honor Matthew. Maybe Hope’s name weaved into a butterfly. Butterflies make me smile.” Tabitha takes a sip of her coffee, swallowing it down and braving her next question. “Have you talked to Dean recently?”
My heart beats faster at the mere mention of him.
Oy . “Here and there,” I tell her, shifting back into the booth and fidgeting with my dress belt.
“He texts me sometimes to see how I’m doing.
He left me a nice voicemail on my birthday in August.” I chuckle then, thinking about our last interaction on social media.
“He recently tagged me in this article showcasing the world’s greatest pranks and practical jokes. He said he was taking notes.”
Tabitha grins over her cup, tickling Hope’s toes when the baby squeals beside us. “That’s great, Cora. I’m glad it hasn’t been complete radio silence.”
Me, too. I wasn’t sure what to expect in those initial months after he left—I wasn’t even sure what I wanted .
They say ‘out of sight, out of mind’ is the key to healing, but I never felt like I needed to heal from Dean.
I needed to heal from myself. And I couldn’t imagine a future in which he simply didn’t exist anymore .
So, the occasional contact has been refreshing. We never let our conversations get emotional or veer into any intimate territory. He checks in. I check in. We send a funny meme here and there.
We stay connected.
Tied, but with a loose grip.
It’s enough for now.
I’m just not sure if it always will be.
Tabitha gives Hope a wafer to gum when the baby begins to fuss, and we continue our chat over coffee and giggles.
Time runs away from us, as it usually does during our monthly get-togethers, and Tabitha needs to head out for a doctor’s appointment.
When we hug goodbye, I feel her arms encompass me in an extra tight squeeze, her breath whispering against my ear.
“You’re such an inspiration, Cora. The true meaning of hope.”
Tears rim my eyes as we pull back, and I offer her a watery smile. “The feeling is very mutual.”
I watch the two girls depart the café, returning the wave Tabitha sends me as they disappear down the sidewalk. I grab my purse, about to follow her out, when I remember I wanted to bring home two puppuccinos for Jude and Penny—which is basically a cup filled with whipped cream.
Want to know what else is whipped? Me.
I laugh at the absurdity of carrying home cups of whipped cream in my purse for my dogs, and shuffle over to the counter.
I hear the door jingle behind me as I order, then I move off to the side and wait.
When I collect the two cups and make sure the lids are sealed tight, I spin around and collide into a hard body.
“Oh! I’m so sorry.”
“Shit. Sorry.”
That voice.
We both look up, making eye contact, and I freeze.
Then I drop one of the two puppuccinos, sending a spattering of whipped cream all over my boot. I feel like I should probably clean it up, but I can’t seem to take my eyes off him, and moving in general is definitely out of the realm of possibility.
Dean’s face is a mask of surprise, a little bit of wonder, and a hell of a lot of oh, shit . “You dropped something.”
I blink, registering his words very slowly. When they sink in, I can’t help but release a small smile that only brightens when his own smile begins to stretch. “Did I?” I squeak out, feeling a strange mix of disbelief, awe, confusion, and potent familiarity .
“According to my pant leg, you did.”
I glance down, my face flushing with embarrassment as I take in the whipped cream dappling the leg of his jeans. When I look back up, the humor has faded, and neither of us make any attempt to clean up the mess.
“You look amazing, Cora,” he breathes out, his eyes scanning over my healthy curves, shorter hair, and settling on the renewed sparkle in my eyes. “I didn’t even recognize you when I walked in.”
I duck my head, somewhat bashfully. “You’re just not used to seeing me in anything other than sweatpants,” I joke.
Dean is still studying me head to toe, but not in a sleazy way—it’s almost like he’s soaking me up. Reveling in all of my put-back-together pieces. “It’s not that.”
We both know it’s not that.
I swallow, trying to find the words I’ve so desperately wanted to say to him for eight long months, but now that he’s here, I feel tongue-tied. I nibble my lip, our eyes drawing back together. “You look good, too.”
Well, he does. He really does. He’s wearing a crisp, black button-down over a white band t-shirt with dark jeans. His hair is mussed and slightly overgrown, and a light stubble shadows his jaw. And I think his eyes are even bluer— is that possible ?