Chapter 47
Chapter forty-seven
Ava
The onions sizzle in the pan. The wine in my glass is a little sweet but comforting. Mia is dancing like no one’s watching—even though we very much are—and Sophia is pretending not to enjoy it while chopping cherry tomatoes with surgical precision.
There’s music playing—old, happy, a little ridiculous—and wine in all our glasses.
It feels like a moment stolen from another life. A better one.
I laugh at something Sophia says, and for a second, I forget how heavy I’ve been feeling. Just for a second.
For the first time in what feels like weeks, I’m not holding my breath.
I’m not “fine.” But I’m not faking it, either. I’m just here.
Sophia hands me a spoon. “Taste this and lie to me if it doesn’t need more garlic.”
I grin. “More garlic. Lie avoided.”
The girls laugh, and it’s easy. No sharp edges in their voices. No pressure. Just comfort. Just presence.
It feels like a breath I didn’t know I needed.
Mia raises her glass. “To girls’ night, pasta, and may we always be able to count on each other.”
“Cheers,” I say, and take a sip before the lump in my throat catches me off guard.
We laugh. I sip my wine. The warmth sits heavy in my chest.
Then, like it always does, the quiet slips in. It settles behind my ribs. Waiting. And before I can stop myself, I speak.
“He made it feel like none of it mattered.”
They pause—don’t press, don’t speak. Just… let me.
“George,” I say, voice low. “He made it feel like all the work I did to feel like me again—everything Elijah and I rebuilt… it was nothing. Like it never happened. Like I’d always end up back where I started.”
Sophia puts the knife down, gently. “Ava…”
“He knew exactly what to say. He didn’t even have to raise his voice. He just looked at me like I was pathetic. Like I was stupid for believing I could have something good.”
I blink fast. My eyes burn, but I won’t let the tears fall. Not yet.
“I fought so hard to get here,” I whisper.
“To trust Elijah. To trust myself. And George made it feel like none of it was real. Like it was all just a temporary illusion I’d eventually destroy.”
Sophia’s voice is steady. “That’s what abusers do. They gaslight your progress. Because if you think you’re still broken, you won’t believe you deserve peace.”
Mia steps closer, wine glass in hand. “But you do deserve it. And you earned it, Ava. Everything you’ve rebuilt? It’s real. You didn’t imagine it. You fought for it.”
I shake my head, barely.
“Elijah’s been so good to me. I don’t even know how he does it,” I say. “He’s just… there. He never rushes me. Never gets frustrated. He listens. He remembers the little things—like when I flinch at loud noises or when I get quiet after certain words. He doesn’t push. He just… stays.”
Sophia gives me a small smile. “That’s because he loves you.”
I nod, slowly. “He’s been—God, he’s been incredible through all of it. That’s what scares me. Because I still keep waiting for him to leave. For the other shoe to drop.” I say, voice cracking
They look at me, quiet, attentive.
Mia leans her head against my shoulder. “He’s not leaving. He’s all in.”
Sophia adds, “He doesn’t tolerate your healing—he honors it. And honestly, from what we see? Elijah looks at you like you hung the damn moon.”
Mia leans her hip against the counter beside me. “You should see how he talks about you when you’re not around. Like you’re the sun. Like he can’t believe you even looked at him, let alone let him love you.”
I swallow hard.
“He is the sun,” I whisper. “And I feel like I’m this storm cloud that just keeps dragging behind him.”
Mia gently taps her glass against mine. “You’re not a storm, Ava. You’re someone who survived one. And Elijah’s not just patient because he’s a saint. He’s patient because he loves you. Because he wants to be.”
I look between them. Their eyes are soft. Knowing. Unshaken by my mess.
I’m used to people tolerating me. Not cherishing me.
But these two? And Elijah? They make me wonder if maybe, just maybe, I’ve been wrong about what I’m allowed to receive.
I laugh. It’s wet and shaky and small. But it’s real. “You’re not putting him through anything. He chose to walk beside you. And the way he looks at you?” She smiles. “He’d do it a thousand times over.”
“He is the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” I say.
“And you’re one of the best things that’s ever happened to him,” Sophia says. “Don’t forget that part.”
“I love him so much.” I say slowly. Mia smiles. “Then trust him to stay. The way he already does.”
The tears finally fall, slow and quiet. Not because I’m falling apart—but because, maybe for the first time in a long time, I’m being reminded that I’m not the problem. I’m the survivor. I'm a warrior.
And the love I’ve found? I didn’t imagine it. I built it. Brick by messy, painful, beautiful brick.
Mia wraps her arms around me from behind. Sophia slides in from the side. We hold each other in the middle of the kitchen like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
The sauce bubbles on the stove. Sophia turns the heat down. The playlist flips to some soft indie track about coming undone and being loved anyway.
And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel broken.
Just… healing. Slowly.
***
The pasta’s cold by the time we eat it, but no one cares.
We’re on the kitchen floor—legs tangled, wine half gone, soft music still humming in the background. It’s not the night I expected, but it might be the one I needed.
My body feels lighter. My chest doesn’t ache like it did when I walked in tonight.
Something shifted. Not everything. But enough.
I trace the rim of my wine glass with my finger, staring at the shadows flickering across the countertop. Then I say it, almost too quietly to hear:
“I think I’m going to talk to someone.”
The room stills. Not in a tense way. Just attentive. Open.
Mia’s eyes widen, hopeful. “Like… a therapist?”
I nod, slow but certain. “Yeah. I think… I’m ready.”
Sophia softens beside me. “That’s huge, Ava.”
“I’ve been stuck,” I admit. “Stuck in my own head. In what George said. What he made me feel. Like all the work I did—getting back to myself, back to Elijah—was just some fragile little lie waiting to shatter.”
My voice tightens, but I keep going. “And for a while, I believed him. I believed that no matter how far I came, I’d always be pulled back.”
Mia leans in, touching my arm. “But you’re not back there.”
“No,” I whisper. “I’m not. And I don’t want to go back. I want more. For me. And for Elijah.”
I breathe in deep.
“Because we deserve to be happy. We deserve a relationship that’s whole and healthy. And I don’t want trauma to be the third person in it anymore.”
Sophia’s smile is quiet and proud. “Then you’re doing the bravest thing you can.”
Mia adds, “You’re choosing to stay out of the wreckage. That’s power, Ava.”
The front door clicks open before I can say more.
Keys in the bowl. A soft thump of shoes hitting the mat. That familiar rhythm that grounds me even on the worst days.
Elijah 's home.
His voice echoes from the hall. “Hey—did I miss dinner or did someone set the kitchen on fire?”
Sophia grins. “Speak of the golden retriever.”
My chest warms, slow and full. I wipe under my eyes and stand. Not out of shame—but because I want to meet him, right where he is.
He walks in, hair wind-tossed, hoodie slightly crooked, and when he sees me, his whole face lights up.
“Hey baby,” he says softly, arms already opening.
“Hey,” I breathe.
I walk straight into him, arms sliding around his waist, head against his chest.
“You okay?” he asks, one hand already in my hair.
I nod. “I actually think I will be.”
And I mean it.
Because I’m choosing healing. Because I’m choosing us.
Because he and I deserve to build something better than what tried to break me.
Elijah hums his agreement and kisses the top of my head like he always does—no rush, no expectation, just love that’s steady and real.
And for the first time in a long time, I believe it.
We’re going to be okay. Not just because we survived, but because we’re still choosing each other.
***
The girls leave not long after he gets home—warm hugs, soft glances, whispered reassurances that they’re just a text away. They don’t overstay. They never do.
Elijah walks them out, thanking them like they’re family, like he knows what they’ve just done for me without needing the details.
When the door closes and it’s just the two of us, silence settles.
Not heavy. Not tense. Just quiet.
He looks at me like he’s reading a page he’s seen a hundred times and still wants to memorize again.
“You look different,” he says softly.
I blink. “In a bad way?”
He shakes his head. “In a lighter way.”
I don’t know how to respond to that. So I just step closer.
We stand in the kitchen, the dim light flickering above the stove. His hands rest gently on my waist, waiting—not pulling, not assuming—just there.
“I told them,” I say. “About George. About how it felt. About how much you’ve helped me hold it.”
His eyes don’t move from mine. “Yeah?”
I nod. “And I told them I want to talk to someone. A therapist. For real this time.”
His breath catches for a second—small, almost imperceptible. But I feel the joy behind it like a wave.
“I’m proud of you,” he says. “So proud.”
“I’m not doing it just for me,” I admit. “I mean—I am. But also… I want to be better for us. You deserve that. We deserve that.”
He shakes his head gently, but not in disagreement. Just with too much emotion to contain. “I never needed you to be ‘better.’ Just needed you to be you. But I love that you’re choosing this. For yourself. For us.”
I lean in, pressing my forehead to his chest, and feel his hands come up to cradle my back.
We stay like that for a long moment—breathing each other in.
Then I pull back, look up, and finally say the thing I’ve been holding inside:
“Thank you.”
He blinks. “For what?”
“For not flinching. For staying. For letting me break and rebuild. For reminding me I’m allowed to be loved without being perfectly put together.”
His expression softens, eyes shining.
“You don’t have to thank me for that,” he whispers.
“Loving you isn’t hard, Ava. It’s the most natural thing in the world.”
I kiss him—slow, sure, no urgency. Just softness. Just love.
It’s the first time in weeks I kiss him because I want to, not because I need reassurance or escape.
Just… because I love him.
When I pull back, we’re both smiling. Small. Safe.
“You feel okay?” he asks again, rubbing my back.
“I feel like I’m finally coming back to myself,” I whisper.
He leans his forehead against mine. “Then we’ll keep going. As slow as you need. As long as it takes.”
And in this quiet kitchen, with garlic still hanging in the air and the city humming softly outside, I let myself believe that healing isn’t just possible—It’s already happening. And I’m not doing it alone.