Chapter 8
Violet
The knock at my door is not friendly. It’s not an “I brought muffins” knock.
It’s “open up before I knock this entire house off its foundations” knock.
Sam always does a quick courtesy tap, and Hattie…
well, since she stitched me up a couple of weeks ago, she knocks by yelling she’s here, then helping herself to my coffee machine.
But this? This is a steady bashing from someone with knuckles the size of grapefruits and zero interest in subtlety.
My door groans like it’s reconsidering its life choices.
Honestly? Same.
Or maybe it’s just my sensory system playing up.
It does that sometimes—spikes and dips for no reason, like someone keeps messing with the dials behind my ribs. And it doesn’t surprise me, since I barely slept last night. My brain kept looping back to him. My rescuer. That enormous, impossibly gentle dog.
Every time I drifted toward sleep, I felt him again. The weight of warm fur under my hands, the low, worried whine he made when I couldn’t breathe, the way his presence pressed against my panic until it cracked apart.
But what haunts me most is the calm. God, that calm.
It didn’t make sense then, and it makes even less sense now.
How can a dog I’ve never met before slow the spiral better than every breathing exercise, every grounding trick, every therapy script I’ve rehearsed for a year?
It’s been twelve months of feeling jagged and broken and too small for my life.
Twelve months of fighting my own body just to stand.
Twelve months of trying to remember what safety even feels like.
And then one moment, one heartbeat, one terrified breath, one huge, quiet creature leaning into me and suddenly I felt… steadier.
Who the hell finds peace in the middle of a panic attack?
I guess I did. And now I want that feeling back. That impossible sense that, for a few stolen minutes, I wasn’t drowning. I don’t know what that means. But I know it means something.
I count the steps from my couch like a kid reciting a rhyme.
One, two, three… because pretending I’ve got this under control is better than admitting I don’t.
My fingers find the doorframe, then the handle, the metal cool and unforgiving against my palm. I grip it harder than necessary, willing my knees not to wobble. God, I hate wobbling. It makes me feel like my fear is visible.
I know it’s stupid to be scared, but years of living in the city carved that fear into my bones.
Checking peepholes. Double-locking doors.
Holding my breath in elevators. Listening for footsteps behind me.
Fear wasn’t a feeling back then, it was a lifestyle.
A damn roommate. After the accident, it only got worse.
Moving out here was supposed to fix that. The quiet streets and fresh air. Space to breathe and neighbors who want to borrow sugar instead of rob you.
But apparently, I packed my trauma right along with my kitchen bowls, because here I am, standing in my home in a peaceful little town, hand trembling on a door like I’m about to let a murderer inside.
And with nothing but guesswork and four inches of wood between me and…
No. Don’t say it, Violet. Don’t say Michael Myers.
Argh, goddamn it, that’s exactly what I said not to say. And now the thought’s loose, running laps in my head, dragging every horror movie I’ve ever seen behind it like a float parade.
I squeeze my eyes shut, exasperated at myself. Why the hell am I like this?
When I pull the door open, a rush of cool air sweeps in, bringing with it the unmistakable presence of someone standing right there.
A voice fills the doorway the way some people fill entire rooms—loud, warm, and absolutely impossible to ignore. It’s a tall voice. I don’t know how I know that, but I do. It stretches upward in my mind like it’s towering way above me, all height and broad shoulders I can only imagine.
“Hi… uh… hello. Sorry to intrude like this. My name’s Beau, Beau Bergen.”
There’s a beat, one of those awkward, shuffling silences where I can practically feel him rethinking every life choice that led him to my porch. Then he blurts out, flustered and honest, “Oh hell. Sorry. I’m literally holding out my hand. Wow, I’m an idiot.”
Something tight in my chest loosens.
A laugh slips out before I can stop it, and it’s way more genuine than I’ve managed around strangers in a long time. If I had a penny for every time someone tried to shake my hand and then remembered I couldn’t see it, I could buy a yacht.
Okay, fine, technically I could buy a yacht now, but considering I barely have my sea legs on land, putting me on a boat would definitely earn me a Darwin Award.
Blind girl blindly yeets herself overboard. Very poetic.
So, I take pity on the guy.
Or maybe I take pity on myself, on that stubborn part of me that still wants people to forget I’m blind. That part that aches a little every time someone edits themselves around me, slows their voice, shifts into that careful, cautious tone like I might break.
But this guy? He forgot. Just for a moment, he forgot.
He saw a person on the other side of the door, not a disability. He made a faux pas because he treated me like anyone else, and honestly that feels more normal than anything has in a long time. So, yeah. I’m okay with that.
More than okay.
“Violet,” I say, thrusting my hand in his approximate direction, hoping I’m at least gesturing at a human and not a porch post. “Trust me, I’ve done the same thing.”
He snorts. “You also try to shake a blind person’s hand?”
“Not exactly, but one time I did tell an amputee she was missing a limb.”
There’s a beat, then his laugh erupts, loud and larger than life like he feels. And with it comes a soft whine. Low, familiar, heartbreakingly gentle.
I freeze. My breath collapses in on itself. I know that sound. I know it in my bones.
The dog from yesterday.
My heart trips, stumbles, then launches into a full sprint, thudding against my ribs like it’s trying to get to him first. For one reckless second, I swear I could just drop to my knees, fling my arms around his neck, and bury myself in the safety of his fur.
Don’t act like a crazy person, Violet. Don’t scare them off. Keep it together. You can’t tackle their dog. You absolutely cannot tackle their dog. Even if it feels like he saved your life yesterday.
“Look… uh… I’d invite you in, but since I can’t tell if you’re wielding an axe or anything, I have to be rude.”
The words tumble out before I can stop them. Great, Violet. Tell the potential murderer you’re defenseless.
“Nah,” he says, all warm and easy, “I don’t carry an axe. I prefer a bow as my weapon of choice. Like the Pink Ranger.”
I blink. Hard.
“Pink Ranger, as in the Power Rangers?”
His tone shoots up an entire octave, pure, unfiltered excitement bursting out of him like confetti. “Exactly!”
And I can’t help it, but my own mouth curves. That kind of enthusiasm is contagious, impossible not to catch. The tension in my shoulders loosens a fraction. He doesn’t sound like a murderer. He sounds like a giant, overgrown nerd who probably cries during superhero movies.
“I used to watch the Power Rangers as a kid. My favorite was the Purple Power Ranger. For obvious reasons.”
The second it leaves my mouth, I wince internally. Could I get any lamer?
Why not just confess I used to kiss my posters goodnight while I’m at it?
Another whine hits my ears, soft, dramatic, and absolutely judgmental. Like someone muttering ‘don’t encourage him’ under their breath. I bite back a smile.
“Power Rangers is my jam,” Beau says, completely unashamed.
“Hey, I get it,” I say, lifting a shoulder. “Up until a year ago, I had a collection of Care Bears from when I was a kid. I had to give them away.”
The words come out lighter than the ache behind them.
“Too much upkeep, and… I couldn’t see them anyway.” Why am I telling this guy these things? I hear Beau shift, then his small intake of breath, like he wants to say something comforting but isn’t sure how.
The dog gives a low, sympathetic rumble that vibrates through the air and into my ribs.
The heaviness in my chest deepens. I told Meemaw to get rid of the Care Bears, and now the regret sits under my sternum.
Even blind, I could’ve known each one just by the shape of their bellies.
I used to trace the stitched symbols with my thumbs when I couldn’t sleep.
Their plush fur, slightly faded and rough from years of being piled into bed with me as a child and a teenager. Okay, and as an adult. Don’t judge me.
I shouldn’t have let them go. I shouldn’t have let any of it go.
Piece by piece, I’d stripped my life down.
First the bears, then the furniture, then all the little things that made my home feel like mine.
All of it sold or donated, replaced with objects chosen for practicality, not memory.
Things that didn’t remind me of the woman I was before the accident.
I told myself it was a fresh start, a clean slate, but sometimes it feels like I erased myself instead.
Talking to a stranger I won’t even let inside my home is somehow pulling thoughts into the open that have no business creeping in. Things I usually keep shoved down deep where they can’t sting.
Warm fur nudges against my hand. Not demanding or pushy. Just there. Like he can sense the shift in my mood
The touch is so grounding that my throat tightens. God, how does he do that? How does he know?
Time to end this. If I don’t cut the conversation now, nostalgia’s going to drag me under, and I’ve already lived in that darkness long enough.
I straighten, pulling a breath into the sore edges of my lungs. “Is there anything I can help you with, Beau?”
“Uh… yeah… my dog hasn’t been able to settle since yesterday,” he says. “Won’t stop whining. Won’t eat. Just kept dragging me back this direction.”
Did the dog feel the connection the way I did?