Chapter 4
Dinner is pot roast.
My father made it from the recipe his mother left him, the one written on a stained index card whose ink has faded to a pale ghost of itself. He has to hold it under the kitchen light and tilt it just right to read the measurements.
The roast is slightly overdone. The carrots are perfect. The kitchen smells like rosemary and warm broth and the kind of comfort that only exists in ordinary rooms where nothing terrible has happened in a long time.
My mother sits at the island with her reading glasses pushed into her hair while she pours herself a second glass of Pinot Noir.
She’s talking about a reviewer who called her latest manuscript “surgically precise,” which she pretends to be modest about but is clearly thrilled by.
My father nods along while carving the roast with unnecessary concentration.
None of this is extraordinary. That’s the point. This is what ordinary looks like. And I cling to it the way drowning people cling to life rafts.
I move a piece of potato around my plate and try very hard not to think about the library. About fingers in my hair. About the smell of cedar and cigarette smoke. About the quiet, dangerous way Kaiden Monaghan said my name.
Most of all, I try not to think about the way my body reacted to him.
Why did I react like that?
I know the answer my therapist would give. Trauma rewires the nervous system. A brain that learned early to associate touch with danger sometimes loses the ability to distinguish between threat and desire. Adrenaline and attraction live in neighboring rooms.
I know the vocabulary.
Hyperarousal. Conditioning. Response patterns.
I could explain my own damage with clinical precision. None of that makes it easier to sit here pretending I didn’t spend half the afternoon replaying the moment his hand closed around my ponytail.
“How’s school going, Cat?”
My father’s voice pulls me back. He’s watching me carefully. He’s been watching me carefully ever since the fire—like a man holding something fragile and expensive that he’s terrified of dropping.
“It’s going,” I say, offering him the practiced smile that has become second nature. “Different than I expected, but I’m adjusting.”
“Making friends yet?”
“Not really.” I shrug lightly. “But I have Jon.”
My father pushes his plate away slightly. He does that when he’s about to say something serious—creating space between himself and the table, as though the conversation needs room to land.
“Baby,” he says gently, “you should make some actual friends. Girls your own age. And just because we’re close with the Penningtons doesn’t mean you have to date their son.”
“He’s sweet, Daddy.”
My mother sets her wine glass down with quiet precision.
“Sweet,” she says thoughtfully, “is the word people use when they can’t think of anything better.” She glances at me over the rim of her glass. “If you don’t have feelings for him, don’t be with him. Your place at Edgewood has nothing to do with Jonathan.”
“I know.” I stare down at my plate. “He’s just… safe.”
The word sits between us, heavier than the others. My mother hears the weight of it immediately. Her eyebrows lift.
“Safe,” she repeats.
Not accusing. Just acknowledging.
“So,” she adds after a moment, “who’s the unsafe one you’re thinking about?”
“Nobody.” I stand quickly and bring my plate to the sink, turning the water on harder than necessary. “How’s the book coming, Mom?”
She laughs softly behind me.
“I’ll get it out of you eventually,” she says. “But the book is coming along beautifully. The release party is this weekend, and I can feel it, Cat. This one is going to be special.”
I dry my hands and walk over, wrapping my arms around her shoulders from behind and pressing my cheek against her back. She smells like perfume and wine and the quiet warmth of motherhood. I hold on a moment longer than usual.
My father clears his throat. “I have news too.”
We both look at him.
“I’ve been approached about running for governor.”
For a brief moment the kitchen fills with uncomplicated joy. My mother gasps. I throw my arms around him. He laughs, pulling me into a tight hug. And for one fleeting moment everything feels normal.
Then my mother says quietly, “What about Cat’s past?”
The warmth evaporates instantly.
“Fiona—” my father starts.
“We buried it as well as we could, Thomas,” she says carefully. “But a gubernatorial campaign means scrutiny. Reporters dig. If it comes up—”
“Then we deal with it,” he says sharply. “I’m not hiding my daughter.”
“That’s not what I meant. I’m saying we should be prepared—”
I step away. Calmly. Practiced.
“I’m going to study,” I say.
“Goodnight.”
“Cat—”
“It’s fine, Daddy. I’m just tired.”
The smile holds until I reach my bedroom door. It holds while I close it. It holds while I turn the lock. It holds for three seconds after the latch clicks.
Then it breaks.
I slide down the door until I’m sitting on the floor with my knees pulled against my chest. The quiet presses in from all sides.
Breathe in. Out. Count to four. Hold. Release.
My therapist’s voice echoes faintly in my head.
When the spiral starts, anchor yourself.
Five things you can see. Bed. Desk. Window. Books. The crack in the ceiling that looks like a river on a map.
It isn’t working tonight.
I call Jon because silence is where the worst thoughts live. He answers on the fourth ring.
“What is it, Catherine? I’m in the middle of something.”
No hello. No warmth. Just irritation.
“I wanted to see if you’d come to my mom’s release party this weekend.”
“It’s a big deal for her, and—”
“Catherine,” he sighs, “do I look like I attend book parties?”
“It’s not just a party. Her publisher is flying in from New York.”
“That kind of thing isn’t really my scene.” A pause. “If we’re done, I have a project to finish.”
The line clicks dead. He doesn’t say goodbye. I set the phone down and stare at the ceiling. Jon doesn’t make me feel safe. He makes me feel tolerated.
The shower is running before I consciously decide to turn it on. The water gets hot quickly. Too hot. Steam fills the room until the mirror disappears. I sit on the floor of the tub with my knees pulled to my chest and let the water beat down on my shoulders.
The razor sits where it always does. Third shelf. Behind the conditioner. I try not to look at it. But the pressure in my chest keeps building. Thoughts stacking.
My parents discussing my trauma like it’s a campaign liability. Jon hanging up on me. Kaiden Monaghan’s hand in my hair. The way my body betrayed me.
Each thought adds weight. Layer by layer. Until breathing feels difficult. Until my ribs feel too tight around my lungs.
Eventually my hand moves without asking permission. The razor is cool in my fingers. For a moment I hesitate. Then I press the blade lightly against the inside of my wrist.
The skin parts. The pain is sharp. Immediate. And the pressure inside my chest loosens. Just a little. I release a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. The sensation spreads slowly through my body, the way warmth spreads through numb fingers.
Relief.
Not happiness. But relief. The razor lifts. Then lowers again. Another shallow line. Another release.
The second breath comes easier. My shoulders loosen. My body leans into the sensation the way a person leans toward warmth after standing in the cold too long.
One more.
The blade presses a little harder this time. The sting is brighter. The relief deeper. It builds in small waves—quiet, chemical, almost intoxicating.
I close my eyes. The water runs cold around me eventually. I barely notice. The razor slips from my fingers. My head lowers against my knees. The bathroom is silent except for the slow drip of the faucet. At some point, exhaustion overtakes everything else.
When I open my eyes again, the bathroom light is still on. The clock reads 4:17 a.m. The water around me is cold. My arm rests against the side of the tub, thin lines drying dark against the pale geography of older scars.
I drain the water slowly. Clean the razor. Return it to the third shelf. Then I turn the shower hot again and wash carefully, methodically. Because control is the only thing keeping me standing. And the distance between survival and collapse is thinner than most people will ever understand.
Morning is a performance. It always is, on days after.
I wrap the fresh cut with the bandages I keep hidden in the bottom drawer of my dresser, beneath the socks my mother bought me in a set of twelve. The drawer slides closed softly, the way it always does when I push it just far enough without letting it click.
Long sleeves under the blazer. Concealer under my eyes—two shades lighter than my skin tone, blended until the bruised look of a sleepless night disappears.
My hair stays down because I didn’t dry it. A headband keeps the damp strands back from my face. If my mother saw wet hair she’d ask questions, and questions are the one thing I can’t afford this morning.
Downstairs, my father is reading the paper.
He sits at the same place he sits every morning, reading glasses low on his nose, coffee mug with the chipped handle balanced in his hand like it’s a fragile heirloom he refuses to replace.
The quiet normalcy of him makes my chest ache in a way I don’t have a word for.
“Overslept,” I say brightly, moving past him too quickly.
He looks up and smiles. “Long night of studying?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Just want to do well.”
It’s not entirely a lie.
I kiss his cheek, grab my keys from the counter, and slip out the door before the smile can crack. Once I’m in the car I let out the breath I’ve been holding since I woke up in the bathtub.
The engine turns over. Music fills the car immediately—heavy, screaming guitars, the kind of sound that crowds out thought. I turn it up until the bass vibrates through the steering wheel and into my sternum.
The pressure in my chest loosens slightly. Not gone. Just quieter.