The Perfect Love (Ida Heartthrobs)

1. Beautiful Badass

1

Beautiful Badass

Chelsea

One day, when I have children, I want to be able to tell my daughters a man did not break me. The world did not break me. I fought back, and I’ll keep fighting.

Which is why I’m loading up my cute little Prius, ready to take on the world—or at least a new town. Setting off on an adventure.

Just call me Bilbo Baggins.

If Bilbo had been motivated by healing from past trauma and a quiet feminine rage burning softly in the background like a well-stoked fire.

I load my large, bright purple suitcase into my trunk and shove it closed, inhaling the lake air. I’m trading one lake for another with my college choice, but I’m hoping that will help me feel more at home.

My dad looks at me hesitantly. “Got everything? Are you sure you don’t want me to drive you?”

I let him pull me into a hug while channeling my inner strength. That strength has been my survival and the closest thing I have to the old, confident version of myself.

“I’m sure. I’ll be okay. Part of the reason I chose to transfer to SUNY Finger Lakes and move to Old Lake Town is because Uncle Robbie will be right there.” Literally. My uncle owns a small apartment house and will be two floors down from me if I need him. Safety while not compromising my independence.

I get why Dad’s worried, though.

I spent four straight months in bed, two more angry while I clawed my way out, and the last three picking up the pieces. Not healed but heal ing . I’m on a journey to reclaim the best parts of the old me while building the person I’m becoming.

New college. New focus. Fresh start. Hopefully everything I need to stay out of the space I was in and let myself take chances and meet new people, find new friends. Even if there are some things I’ll never do again. And that’s okay.

I’m okay.

And when I’m not, I will be.

I’m resilient even in the moments when I don’t feel that way.

Or at least that’s what my therapist says.

Yeah, healing is a journey.

My phone goes off, and I pull it from my back pocket only to find a group text from my supposed best friends asking why I didn’t go out with them last night.

Getting away from two insufferably unempathetic people is just another bonus of moving almost three hours away.

When your life falls apart, you learn quickly how strong your friendships are. Unfortunately, I learned mine were as fragile as a mediocre white man’s ego.

Which is why I ignore my text, put my phone in my purse, and set that in the backseat. I want nothing but fantasy audiobooks for the next three hours of my life.

Morally gray fae book boyfriends are better than real world men. I said what I said.

My dad looks me over and nods. “Okay. Call me when you get there. And again this weekend. Or text me. Just… let me know you’re okay.”

My stepmom, Hilary, steps up next to him and takes his hand. “She’ll be okay, honey.”

We share a quick hug, but don’t linger, though I appreciate her support.

Hilary is nice and a perfect match for my dad, but they didn’t start dating until I was sixteen, and they got married when I was eighteen, so we’ve never had a deep bond. Which is fine. I never craved a maternal figure. Mostly because I already had one.

“Of course she’ll be all right.” Gran pulls me into her arms. “You rose out of the darkness, and I’m incredibly proud of how you continue to fight. Don’t take shit from anyone. And don’t let anyone steal your power or your peace. You’ve earned both.”

“Thanks, Gran. I love you.”

“Love you too, sweetheart.” She lets me go. “Have fun. Try to knock the patriarchy down a peg or two whenever you can.”

I laugh at that. “I’ll do my best.”

My grandmother has always been my maternal, fuck-the-patriarchy guiding light. My biological mother was never involved in my life, and I don’t blame her.

She and my dad weren’t serious when she got pregnant, but he offered to support her. Her parents pushed her not to have an abortion, so she gave things a shot with my dad, but within a few months of having me, she knew motherhood wasn’t for her. She signed away her rights and left me with my dad. She wasn’t a bad person, but she felt trapped into a life she didn’t want, and I fully respect her choosing herself. She never popped back up in my life or made things confusing for me, and I grew up surrounded by love, so I have no complaints. I hope wherever she is, she’s living the life she wanted for herself, because we all deserve that freedom. That choice. I’m grateful I’m here, but I wouldn’t want any woman to be forced into any situation or decision they didn’t want.

I’ve always felt that way, but it’s stronger now. The desire to help, protect, and empower other women has always been woven into my DNA, but my personal experiences have heightened that. Which is why I have an internship focused on helping, empowering, and advocating for women lined up.

This is me taking my life back, and I’m ready for it.

“I’ll call you tonight, and then I’ll call again on Wednesday after my first day at my internship. And I’ll text like crazy. Promise.”

“I guess I can live with that,” my dad says.

I kiss his cheek and throw my arms around him again. “Love you, Daddy.”

“Love you too, kiddo. Drive safe.”

“I will.”

I grab my giant water bottle from the roof of my car and get settled in the driver’s seat.

A ripple of emotion burns in my chest as I look back at my house and then at my dad’s smiling face, but I take a deep breath and close my eyes, centering myself.

I may not be as carefree, wild, or upbeat as I once was, but I’m slowly finding those things again.

And I’m strong. I can do hard things.

At least that’s what Glennon Doyle says.

This is the right thing, and I’m going to put my positivity pants on and believe it will lead to great things. It has to because I have karma on my side, and the universe is her best friend, which means the universe is totally on my team too.

It’s about time.

“How much money did you spend at Target?” my uncle Robbie asks the second I’m through the front door of his apartment.

He’s ten years younger than my dad, and since my dad had me young, that means he’s young enough to be my older brother.

“Almost as much as I spent at the bookstore.”

“Textbooks are ridiculously expensive.”

I laugh. “Uh, yeah. I meant that cute little indie bookstore downtown. Their romantasy section was huge. Textbooks. Please. I’ll get the cheapest used ones I can find online or find someone in my classes to share an account with for the ebooks.”

“Ah, right. How could I forget? You need bat boys and shadow daddies more than anything educational.”

I stare at him from across the bright kitchen. It’s all white cabinets and light wood tones. Mine is almost the same as his, but the woods in mine are darker and it’s one bedroom instead of two.

“You can get away with it because you love the bat boys and shadow daddies almost as much as I do, but I beg of you, never say ‘shadow daddies’ in front of my father or I might spontaneously combust in embarrassment.”

“Now you’re just giving me ways to harass you.” I stick my tongue out at him, but he nods to the table behind me. “Let’s eat. I’m starving.”

We sit down together at the small table and Robbie sets a large bowl of pasta and a container of meatballs in front of us.

“Eat.”

“Where’s the garlic bread? If I’m going to carb load, I need to do it properly. Thirty percent pasta, seventy percent garlic bread.”

“Thanks for making me a homemade meal, Robbie. You’re the best ever. I’m so glad I came to live here. I’ll even wash the dishes to show you how much I love you.”

I do a slow clap.

“Excellent feminine voice. You should consider voice acting.”

He just arches a brow and I roll my eyes.

“Fine. Thank you so much for making me food. Now, seriously. Where’s the garlic bread? If you tell me you didn’t make any, I’ll have to dock a star on your review on Yelp.”

The timer on the oven beeps, and he stands. “If you had to choose between shadow daddies or garlic bread, which would you choose?”

I stare at him blankly. “Shadow daddies feeding me garlic bread. Duh.”

He opens the oven and pulls out a tray of my edible boyfriend—garlic bread.

“That wasn’t a choice.”

“Uh, yeah it was. I heard them both in the same sentence. That means they go together.”

He sets the tray on some hot plates on the table, and I quickly yank three pieces off, burning my fingers along the way, but it’s a helpful reminder not to shove it in my mouth yet if I want to taste it rather than burn half my taste buds off.

I dig into some pasta, and silence takes over the room as we both eat.

But the silence doesn’t last long.

“So, speaking of carb loading, are you going to play volleyball this year?”

I lift my head with my fork halfway to my mouth. “Wow. What a subtle transition. But also, what does carb loading have to do with volleyball?”

“Don’t athletes carb load?”

“Yeah, like hockey players and football players who are running—or skating, whatever—for hours at a time.”

“Potayto, potahto. Are you playing?”

Volleyball isn’t exactly a sore subject, it just feels like a different life since I’ve done it, which is strange because it used to be one of the biggest parts of my life.

“No. My paid internship at Promise Advocacy is going to take up a lot of that kind of time, and that’s what I’d rather be doing. I might see if there’s a rec league on campus though. I miss it.”

“Sorry. Not trying to be a bummer.”

“You’re not. It’s another part of me I want to find again.”

“Not to be totally sappy, but I’m proud of you.”

“Yeah, wallowing for almost a year before finally facing life again is something to be proud of.” I shove a bite of garlic bread in my mouth.

“Bullshit. And do not even talk about yourself like that. Got it? I don’t care if self-deprecating humor has always been your thing. You’ve worked really hard to be where you are and make it through something tough. Don’t talk shit about yourself.”

I trill my lips. “Fine. Now stop being sappy.”

He kicks my leg under the table. “If you insist. Now, I made you garlic bread. Where’s my dessert?”

I smile in relief. My therapist would tell me I need to take compliments like that and believe them, but I’m not in therapy because I have my shit together, so I’ll continue to avoid that topic and suck at taking compliments.

I get up and grab my bag, then pull out two cookie sandwiches from the coffee place downtown. They’re both chocolate chip M&M cookies with frosting in between. Vanilla for me, chocolate for him.

“I love you.”

“Well, duh. You’re contractually obligated to as my uncle.”

He grimaces. “First, I thought we agreed you don’t refer to me as your uncle because I’m too young and hot. And second, I don’t recall signing a contract for that.”

“Well, you did. So it doesn’t count.”

He waves his hand. “Contract or not, no one ever said I had to like you. But I do. So again, stop with the self-deprecating shit.”

I chuckle. “Is it sad that my”—he pins me with a look, so I stop myself from using the word uncle again—“father’s much younger brother is my best friend?”

He raises his cookie sandwich and taps it against mine. “Nope. Because you’re mine too.”

I glance over at my bag again, where my phone is with still unread texts from my supposed “best” friends.

A moment of bliss hits and a chill runs up my spine, making me smile. This is where I’m supposed to be. I’m supported and I’m ready to take on the world again—or at least one little chunk of it.

After we finish eating, I head back up to my apartment, ready to set up the hundreds of dollars’ worth of blankets, pillows, and accessories I got at Target, and my new bookcase for all my new book boyfriends. They need a safe place to live.

Since I’m a strong, independent woman, I told Robbie I could put it together by myself. And I’m doing the damn thing, but also getting distracted and wondering if my book babies can survive living on my coffee table until tomorrow.

My phone goes off, and I grab it, seeing yet another text in my group chat with my friends.

Guess I should deal with it so I can move on. I’m not going to cut them out of my life or anything, but I’m choosing distance, so I don’t choose raging on them and burning our thirteen-year friendship to the ground.

Bridget: Girl, you totally missed out on all the cute boys last night. Why didn’t you come out with us?

Lex: Yeah! We needed one last girls’ night, and you ditched us.

I didn’t respond to those, so now I have two new ones.

Bridget: And now you’re not answering. Don’t you love us anymore?

Lex: Don’t make me send you a picture of my pouting face.

I sigh and type out a response.

Me: I told you I needed to finish packing last night, and I didn’t answer because I’ve been getting settled in at my new apartment.

The three little dots appear immediately.

Lex: Well, you should’ve packed last minute this morning.

Bridget: Yeah. We wanted to see you before you moved hours away. I still don’t understand why you had to change schools. We were all within an hour of each other before. Now you’re stupidly far away.

I don’t even know how to answer that. Or explain why I’ve avoided going out with them all summer. Because the thing is, I’ve said it. But they don’t like my answer. Or they don’t understand it. They don’t understand why I can’t get over it.

I mean, apparently, I was just supposed to let it roll off my back.

It was only a little rape.

Tears prickle in my eyes.

All it took was one night to destroy my life. One night of not paying attention to my drinks. One night of my college friends ditching me. One night of mistakenly trusting a guy, who then used me and discarded me like I was a disposable toy. One night for my body to stop feeling like my own and for my life to change forever.

I’m not over it.

Sometimes, I think I never will be.

And my “friends” don’t even bother trying to understand that.

All they did was pick on me and treat me like crap because I wasn’t fun anymore.

I want to rage at them. I want to scream about what selfish, unempathetic people they are. That they should consider themselves lucky they have no idea how I feel. I want to tell them to fuck off.

But I don’t want to create more turmoil in my life.

Our hometown of Birch Lake is small, and rifts run deep. I don’t want that.

For half a second, my thumb hovers over the button to delete and block the conversation, but I don’t click that either.

Instead, I take a breath, then type a response.

Me: Because this is where I need to be.

Then I put the conversation on mute, play an audiobook through my Bluetooth speaker, and finish setting up my bookcase.

This is my home now.

This is my life now.

And even though I’m messy at best, still crawling out of the darkness and afraid to be around the opposite sex, I’m doing the damn thing.

I’m going to live my life and be the most beautiful, badass version of me I’ve ever been. That’s how I win.