Chapter 29
ELLIOT
My scars were still there. Some silvered, thin as whispers across my ribs and thighs.
Some faded into pale constellations along my wrists and collarbone.
Some still tender if I pressed too hard or forgot myself and moved too fast. Some I could trace in the mirror and not flinch. Others I avoided altogether.
The physical ones were easier now. They obeyed time and started to fade.
The others lived under my skin. They showed up when a stranger stood too close behind me in line.
When a voice raised too suddenly. When I woke from a nightmare where I was drowning again, lungs burning, arms heavy, the world closing in.
Fewer of them were fresh now. Fewer of them burned, but they still haunted me, maybe, always would. That felt like progress. Healing was hard. It was a journey that would never end.
I lived alone in my small apartment three blocks from the surf shop, above a bakery that smelled like cinnamon and sugar every morning.
The scent drifted up through my open windows and settled into the fabric of my life like a kindness.
The walls were pale blue. I’d chosen the color myself, standing in the hardware store for twenty minutes with a paint chip in my hand, terrified I’d pick wrong.
I’d thought about calling Anthony and asking his advice, but this decision was part of my journey.
The floors creaked when I crossed the living room. The couch was second-hand, lumpy and too soft. My kettle whistled like it was dying. The windows faced the ocean if I leaned out far enough to the left and ignored the power lines.
I leaned anyway because this place was mine. It wasn’t borrowed, or hidden inside someone else’s space waiting to be taken away. For the first time ever, I had something that was really, truly mine.
When I signed the lease, with hands shaking so badly the pen almost slipped out of my grip, I’d cried afterward in my car. Not because I was scared—though I was—but because I hadn’t known wanting something so normal could feel so radical.
Food had become part of my life, not a way to punish myself.
I ate regularly, not always well, but consistently.
Toast in the morning. Soup or a sandwich at lunch.
Actual dinners that didn’t come from a drive-thru.
I still forgot sometimes. Went too long without noticing hunger until my hands trembled.
But Anthony was always there to check in with me.
He’d become my rock in so many ways I’d never expected.
The sound of my laughter still surprised me sometimes.
One time I dropped a carton of eggs in the grocery store aisle and it felt like the walls were about to close in on me for being inadequate.
But when I looked up and saw Anthony hiding his smile behind his hand, my chest loosened and a laugh burst out of me.
The fact joy didn’t feel like stealing anymore was something I was still wrapping my head around.
Sometimes I still woke up heart racing, mouth full of panic, fingers clawing at my sheets. Sometimes I’d lay there afterward staring at the ceiling, cataloguing everything I could hear, feel and name to convince myself I was alive and safe.
Other times Anthony would wrap me in his arms, pulling me closer.
I’d rest my head on his chest and listen to the steady rhythm of his heart until I remembered how to breathe on my own.
Then we’d talk through what had woken me.
Take away the power my mind had over me.
He’d ground me in the moment, not with his body but his presence.
His heart. And the love he had for me still didn’t seem real.
Other times I slept through the night and woke up tangled in legs instead of terror. Those mornings felt like a beautiful miracle where I’d pinch myself to make sure they were real.
My journal sat open on the small kitchen table, pages dog-eared and ink-heavy. I’d filled three notebooks since our reunion at the lighthouse. Three whole lives’ worth of words. My writing had shifted away from survival documentation and errant thoughts into something like a voice.
I explored my wants and dreams. Explored choices and my own agency over my life. At first, I’d only written what had hurt—let my emotions and pain bleed access the pages. Those hurt to read as much as they had to write, but it was cathartic to see how much I’d healed since then.
Now I write what I noticed. The way the ocean changed colors depending on the hour. The way Anthony’s thumb brushed the inside of my wrist when he thought I wasn’t watching. The way my own reflection didn’t look like a ghost anymore.
I was applying for a national writing contest. That alone made my hands shake and my heart feel like it was trying to escape my ribs. The email draft had been open for two days.
The essay was about grief. About shame. About learning that wanting to die had never been the same thing as wanting to stop existing.
About the night I realized I didn’t want to disappear—I just wanted the pain to end.
It was about the lighthouse. About waiting.
About learning that love didn’t have to feel like a cliff.
It wasn’t finished yet. But it was real, and it was mine. My story. My journey.
The table vibrated through my fingers, I looked at my phone to see a message flash up on the screen.
Anthony
I’m here, baby boy
My chest fluttered, filled with butterfly wings stroking the inside of my lungs. It didn’t fill me with dread but anticipation and excitement. He was still careful with me, not distant just in a way that showed he cared and understood me. He knew me better than I knew myself.
He checked my eyes before my words. My shoulders before my smile. He didn't rush my silences. Never treated my boundaries like inconveniences. He never made me feel broken. Just worthy of being handled gently. Treated right.
He knocked once, softly. Like he never wanted to startle me. It was just one of the many ways he took care of me.
I took a breath I didn’t know I was holding and opened the door.
He stood there in dark jeans and a fitted black button-down, dark hair combed back, beard trimmed. He looked unfairly good and faintly nervous. Like he’d stood in front of his own mirror too long, trying not to care about how he looked and failed.
He looked ready for a first date. The thought did something stupid to my heart, sending the butterflies scattering to my gut.
“You look like you’re about to negotiate a hostage release,” I said.
He smiled, relief softening his eyes. “You look like you might bolt.”
“Rude.” I slapped his chest with the back of my hand and grabbed a jacket, and my keys.
“Accurate.”
He leaned in and kissed my forehead, slow and grounding, his palm warm against my jaw. The scent of him—sea salt, cedar and smoke—slid through me like a memory of safety.
“You ready, baby boy?” he murmured and I melted.
I nodded. I meant it, at least I thought I did.
The steakhouse glowed. All amber light, polished wood and linen-draped tables.
The kind of place where waiters wore pressed black shirts and spoke softly like the volume itself was curated.
Where the air smelled like butter and pepper, and expensive wine was on every table.
Where the menus were leather-bound and the water glasses were already sweating cold onto white coasters.
My chest tightened the moment Anthony pulled into the parking lot. Not with panic, not exactly. Just… a familiar coil that wrapped around my chest and made it hard to breathe.
“You okay?” he asked, hand resting easy on my thigh, thumb tracing slow circles like he could feel the shift in my nervous system before I said a word.
“Yeah,” I lied. Automatically. Words too soft. The way I used to lie when I didn’t want to be an inconvenience. “Just… it’s a… really nice place.”
Too nice. A place where I didn’t fit in. My clothes didn’t fit. I didn’t fit.
The host smiled too brightly as we walked in. The clink of silverware was too sharp, coupled with the hum of low conversation it became sensory overload. Laughter from a nearby table punched through my ribs like a reminder that everyone else in this room knew how to exist here without trying.
I followed Anthony to our table like I was walking into a test I hadn’t studied for. The chair scraped across the floor, drawing everyone's attention—at least that's how it felt. My hands hovered uselessly over my napkin. The menu felt heavy. The font too small. The prices too big.
You don’t belong here.
You’re not good enough.
Not healed enough.
Not normal enough.
I caught my reflection in the window behind Anthony—clean shirt, hair combed, scars hidden—and still felt like a fraud. Like someone would tap me on the shoulder and say, “Sorry, you’re not supposed to be here. This table is for real adults. For people who don’t flinch at forks.”
Anthony reached for my hand across the table. “You’re quiet,” he said gently. “You okay, baby?”
I swallowed. The words stacked up behind my teeth. It was all too much. I was too much. Too sensitive. Too fragile. Too complicated. Too likely to ruin a perfectly good night with my stupid, broken brain.
At the same time, I was not enough either. Not healed enough. Not charming enough. Not normal enough to deserve candlelight and filet mignon and a man who looked at me like I was something precious instead of something broken.
“I feel like…” My voice wobbled. I hated it. Hated feeling weak again. “Like I don’t fit here. Like I’m pretending to be someone I’m not.”
Anthony’s eyes softened in understanding, not confused. Not disappointed. “You are someone who deserves a nice dinner,” he said. A statement of fact. “And someone who can change his mind.”
The waiter appeared, cheerful and efficient, rattling off specials. I nodded at the right time but didn’t process a thing. My stomach churned. Hunger tangled with anxiety until I couldn’t tell which one I was feeling.