16. Madelyn
It feels like it’s been forever since I’ve seen my Aunt Winona.
Growing up, my mom used to tell me stories about her and Nonie all the time.
From the way she talked about them, they were inseparable.
Best friends before they were sisters. They spent every spare second together, laughing until they cried, sneaking out of the house, and getting into harmless trouble that only gave them more stories to tell later.
Then something changed. My father happened.
I don’t know all the details of what happened between them after that. Mom never talked about it much, and whenever I asked questions, she’d usually change the subject before I got any real answers. Maybe she was trying to protect me.
Or maybe she was trying to protect herself.
Either way, I’m hoping Nonie will finally tell me the rest of the story today.
The city bus lurches over another pothole, jolting me hard enough that I have to tighten my grip on the metal pole beside me.
I’ve never liked riding the bus. Everything about it makes me uncomfortable.
The seats always feel grimy no matter how clean they look, the air carries a mixture of gasoline and stale cigarette smoke, and there’s almost always at least one person yelling at someone who isn’t there.
I’ve learned to keep my head down and avoid eye contact. Looking at the wrong person for even a second is practically an invitation to start a conversation, and today I don’t have the emotional energy for small talk or someone asking if I have a few dollars to spare.
One day I’ll have my own car and won’t have to rely on public transportation just to get across town. The thought is enough to make me smile as the bus finally pulls up to my stop.
I step onto the sidewalk, grateful to be back in the fresh air, and watch the bus disappear around the corner before starting the short walk to Nonie’s house.
I didn’t tell her I was coming. Technically, I don’t need an invitation.
She’s told me more times than I can count that her front door will always be open for me, but old habits are hard to break.
Years of walking on eggshells around my father taught me that showing up unexpectedly usually meant I was doing something wrong.
Even now, after everything, I still find myself wondering if I’m bothering people simply by existing. It’s ridiculous, I know it is. But trauma has a funny way of convincing you that you’re always one mistake away from making someone stop loving you.
The familiar brick cottage comes into view at the end of the street, and the tightness in my chest eases almost immediately. I’ve always loved Nonie’s house. It’s small, cozy, and overflowing with life in a way my childhood home never was.
Flower beds wrap around the front porch in bursts of color, wind chimes sway gently in the afternoon breeze, and the scent of blooming lavender drifts through the air long before I reach the front steps. I pause for just a moment, breathing it in.
If comfort had a smell, it would smell exactly like this.
By the time I reach the front porch, some of the weight I’ve been carrying around all day has already begun to lift. I raise my hand to knock, but before my knuckles ever touch the wood, the front door swings open.
“Lynie!” Nonie’s face lights up the second she sees me, her smile so bright I can’t help smiling back. “What are you doing here, baby? I’m so happy to see you!”
She doesn’t wait for an answer before pulling me into one of her impossibly warm hugs.
I melt into it without thinking. The tight knot that’s been sitting in my chest since Miles’ apartment slowly unravels as the seconds pass.
There’s something about being held by her that makes me feel like I’m seven years old again, when the biggest problem in my life was scraping my knees on the playground.
For the first time all day, I don’t feel like I have to be strong.
When she finally pulls back, she cups my cheek for a brief moment, studying my face with that gentle smile she’s always had.
“I just wanted to see you,” I admit quietly. “I missed you. I hope that’s okay.”
“Oh Lynie.” Her expression softens even more. “You never have to ask if that’s okay. This house has always been your home too, sweet girl.”
I feel my eyes sting at her words.
She steps aside, holding the door open wider. “Now come inside before you melt out here. I’ll put the kettle on, and you can tell me everything that’s been going on.”
The warmth spilling from the house wraps around me the moment I cross the threshold, carrying with it the comforting scent of cinnamon, vanilla, and fresh tea.
For the first time in what feels like forever, I finally feel safe.
For as long as I remember, Nonie has always had a green thumb.
When I was little, before she moved away to California, I used to spend hours with her in the greenhouse she had built behind her house.
I’d sit on an overturned bucket beside her while she showed me how to plant seeds, how to tell when a flower needed more sunlight, and how sometimes the things that looked the most fragile were the things that fought the hardest to survive.
She always hated Alabama soil. She’d complain about it every time she tried to grow something new, claiming it was determined to ruin every beautiful thing she tried to create.
She used to tell me that one day she was going to move to California and have the most beautiful backyard anyone had ever seen.
Looking around now, I have to admit, she kept her promise.
We sit outside in the backyard of her dreams, surrounded by flowers, greenery, and the peaceful little world she created for herself. Part of me can’t help but feel happy for her. She deserves this. She deserves the life she built.
But there’s another part of me—the younger version of myself that still feels abandoned—that wonders what would’ve happened if she had never left.
Maybe if Nonie had stayed in Alabama, I could have stayed with her after Mom died.
Maybe I wouldn’t have spent five years trapped in that house with him.
Maybe I wouldn’t have learned how to be afraid of every sound, every raised voice, and every slammed door.
Maybe things would’ve been different.
But I can’t blame her for leaving just because I couldn’t. It isn’t fair.
If she had never left, I never would’ve had this place to come to now. I never would’ve had somewhere that felt safe. Somewhere that reminded me what it felt like to be loved without conditions.
I watch as Nonie lifts her tea cup to her lips, the steam curling around her face while she looks out over her garden.
She looks completely at peace here, like this little corner of the world belongs only to her.
I wish I could feel that kind of peace. I really do.
But even here, surrounded by flowers and memories, that same uneasy feeling follows me.
The feeling that someone is watching. The feeling that no matter where I go, I’m never truly alone.
Is this ever going to end?
“Not that I don’t absolutely love seeing you, Lynie,” Nonie says, pulling me from my thoughts, “but I get the feeling that you didn’t come here just to sit in my backyard and drink tea with me.”
Her knowing smile makes me nervous.
“What makes you say that?”
She raises an eyebrow. “Because I’ve known you your whole life, and you have the same look on your face you had when you were little and you broke one of my flower pots and were trying to figure out how to tell me.”
I laugh softly despite myself.
Her smile fades into something gentler.
“So,” she says, setting her cup down. “What’s going on, baby?”
I take a deep breath, staring down at my hands. I knew this was going to be hard. I just didn’t realize how hard.
“There are some things I’ve been wanting to talk to you about,” I admit. “I just didn’t know how to go about telling you…”
Nonie’s expression changes immediately, concern replacing the teasing look from moments ago. She doesn’t push, but that somehow makes it harder.
“I think…” My voice catches, and I force myself to continue. “I think I have a stalker.”
The color drains from her face.
“A stalker?” she repeats. “Madelyn, what's going on?”
I swallow, trying to ignore the panic building in my chest.
“I’ve been getting these text messages, and I keep seeing things.”
“What do you mean, seeing things?”
She leans forward, placing a comforting hand on my knee. The gesture helps—it does—but it doesn’t erase that horrible feeling sitting beneath my skin.
“I keep seeing my dad’s car,” I confess, watching as her brows pull together. “The blue Camaro.”
“Oh, sweetie…”
The second the words leave my mouth, she pulls me into her arms. For a moment, I let myself be held. The tears burning behind my eyes threaten to spill over, and I hate that I still feel like that scared little girl sometimes. Like I’m still waiting for someone to come save me.
“Just because you see a car that looks like his, doesn’t mean he’s here,” she whispers. “You’re in California now, Lynie. This is a much bigger state than Alabama. There’s no way he would have followed you here.”
I pull away, wiping quickly beneath my eyes. Nobody knows, not even her. Nonie thinks I left Alabama and came here for school. She thinks I walked away from my father and left him behind. She doesn’t know what really happened. If she knew the truth, would she still look at me the same way?
Would she still hug me like this?
I don’t know if I could handle finding out.
“Tell me about the messages,” she says softly.
I rub my sweaty palms against my jeans, trying to find the courage to start. It’s better to tell her now. If something happens to me, she deserves to know why.
“Okay.” I take a breath. “So, it started when I went to this party…”
“A party?” Nonie’s face immediately lights up.
I blink. Of all the reactions I expected, that wasn’t one of them.
“Yes. A party.”
“A party with a boy?”
I close my eyes. “Nonie…”
“What? I’m just asking.”
I can’t stop the laugh that escapes me. “Can I please finish?”