Chapter 25 Elliot #2
I swallowed. The promise I’d made to Anthony at the forefront of my mind. “I’m going to call Nora,” I said. “Tomorrow. Schedule an appointment. I need… help untangling things. I’m starting to see I can’t keep drowning the way I have been and expecting things to change.”
She smiled through tears. “Good.”
“I want to find a job,” I continued. “Something near the water. Something real. And eventually, my own place. Not to disappear—but to learn how to stand without bleeding everywhere.”
Mia crossed the room and pulled me into a hug. I folded into her like I’d been waiting for permission.
“That sounds like healing,” she said softly. “I’m proud of you, El. You have no idea how scared I’ve been, especially when you stopped reading my messages. At least when you left them on read, I knew you were alive.”
My breath hitched, pain spiked though my chest. “I’m so, so sorry. I just…” I shook my head trying to clear my thoughts. But that was when the tears came and drained me of the last bit of energy I was clinging to.
“Get some sleep El.” She kissed my forehead then headed to the door. “After your appointment tomorrow, we'll go to the thrift store and get you some clothes.”
“Why,” I managed around a yawn.
“You can’t wear Anthony’s clothes forever can you?”
“Huh, I’d forgotten about that.”
She snorted. “It’ll all work out…” That was the last thing I heard before sleep claimed me.
Nora’s office smelled faintly of citrus and clean paper, the same way it always did. The blinds were half open, letting in a soft winter light that didn’t glare or intrude. A small plant sat on the windowsill, stubbornly green despite the season.
I sat on the couch, feet flat on the floor like she’d taught me, hands resting on my thighs. My heart still raced, but it didn’t feel like it was trying to escape my chest anymore. It felt… contained. Loud, but survivable.
“So,” she said gently, settling into her chair and crossing one leg over the other. Clipboard resting loosely in her lap. “Where would you like to start today?”
I stared at the rug for a long moment, following the pattern with my eyes until my breathing slowed enough to trust my voice.
“With the part where I confuse care with danger.”
She didn’t smile. Didn’t rush to reassure me. “Okay,” she said simply. “Tell me about that.”
I swallowed. “I think… growing up, love always came with a cost. Or a condition. Or silence. My dad loved my mom like she was the sun. And I was just—” I shrugged helplessly. “Something that came with her.”
Nora nodded. “How did that feel, being loved conditionally?”
“Like I had to earn oxygen,” I said before I could stop myself. My throat tightened. “He could be kind. Attentive. Proud, even. But it was never… for me. It was because she wanted it. Because loving me made her happy.”
“And when she died?” Nora asked softly.
Something twisted low in my stomach. “He stopped pretending,” I said. “And suddenly everything about me made him angry. I remind him of her. Of what he lost. He told me he feels sick when he looks at me.” My fingers curled into my palms. “Said he wished it had been me instead.”
Nora’s voice stayed even, but her eyes sharpened with focus. “That’s a profound trauma, Elliot. Especially coming from a parent.”
I nodded. “It’s like… all that time, I thought I was failing at being enough. But really, the rules just changed and no one told me.”
She let that land before asking, “How is that different with Anthony?”
The question hit somewhere tender. “With Anthony,” I said slowly, “care doesn’t feel like a test. He notices before I ask.
He stays—mostly. He doesn’t disappear when I fall apart.
Well, not anymore,” I hesitated, then forced myself to keep going.
“And he doesn’t want anything from me except honesty. ”
Nora tilted her head slightly. “You’ve used the word ‘caretaker’ before.”
“Yes.” My pulse picked up, but I stayed with it.
“I’ve looked into it. The dynamic. The daddy/boy thing.
” My cheeks burned, but I didn’t look away.
“Not as a replacement for my father. I know the difference. It’s not about him being my dad.
It’s about choosing to let someone hold responsibility with consent.
It’s about structure. Safety. Letting go. ”
“And what does submission give you?” she asked, carefully neutral.
Relief flooded me at the lack of judgment. “Rest,” I said immediately. “It’s like… I’ve spent my whole life hypervigilant. Managing everyone else’s emotions. With Anthony, I don’t have to be on guard. I can soften. I can be taken care of without it being thrown back at me later.”
Nora nodded slowly. “And how do you feel about wanting that?”
I thought about it. Really thought. “I don’t hate myself for it anymore,” I said. “I used to. But now it feels honest. Like a language my nervous system understands.”
She smiled—not approving, not disapproving. Just present. “That distinction matters.”
I exhaled shakily. “There’s something else.”
“Go ahead.”
“My mom’s lawyer called last week,” I said. “She left me… a lot. More than I expected. Everything, actually.”
Nora’s pen paused. “How did that feel?”
“Confusing,” I admitted. “Guilt. Gratitude. Fear. Like… proof that she really saw me. That I mattered to her in a way I never let myself believe.”
“And your father?”
I swallowed. “He called me the next day. He demanded the money. Said it was his. That she would have wanted him to have it.” My jaw clenched. “But she didn’t. She left it to me. All of it.”
Nora leaned forward slightly. “What did you feel in that moment?”
“Small,” I said. “Angry. Vindicated. Terrified.” I laughed weakly. “And weirdly… free. Like she made a choice even after she was gone. Like she was still protecting me.”
“That’s an important reframe,” Nora said gently. “Your mother exercised agency. And your father’s reaction doesn’t negate that.”
I nodded, eyes stinging. “Anthony told me it was okay to accept it. That I don’t have to punish myself to prove I’m good.”
“And how does it feel to hear that?” she asked.
“Like learning a new rule for living,” I said. “One that doesn’t involve suffering first.”
Nora smiled softly. “Elliot, you’re doing incredibly deep work. Differentiating care from control. Desire from damage. That takes courage.”
I breathed in. Out. Just like she’d taught me when my emotions got too much. “For the first time,” I said, “I don’t feel broken. Just… unfinished.”
“And that,” she replied, “is a very hopeful place to be.”
That afternoon, as I walked back from Nora’s office with my coat unbuttoned, the cold sharp enough to keep me in the moment, in my body.
My thoughts were quieter than they had been in weeks—not gone, just..
. less frantic. Like something inside me had finally been named, and because of that, I wasn’t clawing so hard anymore.
When I got back to Mia’s, the place was empty, but alive in that low, comforting way. Voices drifted from the kitchen where someone had left the radio on for the rescue Dix brought home last week. The muted thud of paws let me know the little black thing had heard me come in.
I kicked off my shoes and put them on the top of the unit so Jeckel—aptly named—didn’t chew them up like Drax’s boots. In the kitchen I went straight for the kettle as Jeckel yapped and nipped at my ankles only shutting up when I picked him up for a quick hug.
With him satisfied I had time to search the cupboards for the camomile I’d stashed in there the other day while the kettle boiled.
Anthony used to make it for me on nights when my hands shook too badly to trust myself with anything too hot.
He’d say nothing, just press the mug into my palms like it was obvious I deserved comfort. Like it wasn’t something I had to earn.
It was strange how all these little things were coming back to me now we weren’t with each other twenty-four-seven. Like time and distance made me appreciate every little, profound thing he did for me in an entirely new way.
The kettle clicked off. I poured the water slowly, watching the tea bloom, breathing in the soft, grassy scent. My chest tightened—not in pain, but in that aching, almost-hopeful way that came when I let myself miss him without punishing myself for it.
I carried the mug to my temporary room and sat cross-legged on the bed.
Then reached for my journal. The new one.
The one Anthony had bought for me. It was a surprise when it arrived on the doorstep the other week.
It had a bright pink spine. Loud in a way that felt intentional.
Hope, he’d called it, a little sheepishly when I spoke to him on the phone later that day.
I ran my thumb along the edge of the page before opening it. The paper smelled clean. Untouched. Like endless possibilities. I wrote slowly, carefully, like if I rushed the words they might slip away.
I keep thinking healing is supposed to feel like relief. Like a finish line. But today it felt more like learning how to stand without bracing for impact.
I paused, listening to the house settle around me. The clink of the dishwasher meant someone else was now here. A muffled argument from the radio. Normal life happening close enough that I didn’t feel exiled from it. Not anymore.
Anthony isn’t my dad. And I’m not trying to make him one. He’s a choice. And choosing to be held doesn’t make me weak. It makes me honest.
My hand shook, just a little more.
Maybe I didn’t want to die. Maybe I just didn’t want to be alone in the dark anymore.
I closed the journal before the feeling could tip into something sharper. Pressed my palm flat against the cover like a vow. Took a sip of tea and let it ground me.
The sound my phone made when it vibrated on the glass-top side table that served as my makeshift nightstand could have woken the dead. I quickly set my drink down, and for a second, I couldn’t move. My heart did that small, traitorous leap it always did when his name appeared.
“Hey,” I said, my voice softer than I’d planned.
“Hey,” he replied. He sounded steadier than the last time we talked. Tired, maybe—but anchored. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“No.” I cleared my throat. “I just got back from therapy.”
There was a quiet sound on the other end, like a smile he didn’t need to show. “How was it?”
“Hard,” I admitted. “But… the kind of hard that settles later. Like it’s doing something.”
“I’m really glad,” he said. Then he hesitated, and I knew something was coming. Anthony always took a breath before saying things that mattered. “I wanted to tell you something.”
I drew my knees closer to my chest. “Okay.”
“I started volunteering,” he said. “At a crisis line. Nights, mostly.”
The words landed gently, but they carried weight. “Oh,” I breathed.
“I talked to my therapist about learning how to sit with people’s pain without trying to fix it,” he continued. “About not running from it. Or from myself.” A beat passed. “It felt like a good place to start.”
Something warm and fierce bloomed in my chest. “That makes sense,” I said. “That sounds like you.”
He gave a quiet laugh. “Terrifying and right at the same time.”
“I’m proud of you,” I said, before I could overthink it and make this exchange more complicated than it needed to be.
The line went still. When he spoke again, his voice was rougher. “That means more than you know.”
We didn’t rush the silence. We let it be what it was—two people reaching carefully, not pulling too hard, letting the connection breathe.
“I’m trying,” he said finally. “To become someone who can stay. Even when it’s uncomfortable. To grow into the best version of myself, like I promised you.”
“I know,” I said. “I am too.”
Even though I couldn’t see his face I knew he was smiling, I could hear it in his voice. “I’ll call you again next week,” he said. “Same day if that works.”
“I’d like that very much,” I told him. And for once the wanting didn’t feel dangerous.
After the call ended, I sat there for a while with the phone resting against my chest, the chamomile cooling between my hands. The opened the journal again and added one last line, smaller than the rest.
We are learning how to be careful with each other. And that feels like love, too.