I know she’s not business. She’s not a project, but getting her to at least consider us… hell, yeah. I’m pulling all the stops.
The least we can do is give ourselves a chance to be happy.
40
COCO
Returning to normalcy is easier said than done. I do my usual routine—“Don’t be a coward, Coco, nothing bad really happened, both times you were rescued right on time, count your blessings, don’t be ungrateful,” and it helps a little.
I wish it were enough.
My internet searches tell me it’s okay to deal with negative feelings and not to fight them.
Thanks, Karen. But I have a life to live, a job to work, and a saddle to get back into.
Is that too beta-like? Would an omega build herself a nest and stay inside until she transformed into a chrysalis?
I feel very caterpillar-like right now. Watching TV shows and eating junk food, keeping my windows closed and the curtains drawn.
Refusing any attempts from my friends to meet or talk.
Becoming a recluse once again.
Shit, right? This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. The bad guys are supposed to be the ones punished, not the victims. And I hate being a victim.
Reclaim your life. Nobody is forcing you under the covers. Nobody says you need to stay in the dark of your apartment, replaying old TV shows and eating comfort food.
You shouldn’t need a coping mechanism now that it’s over.
And yet here I am. Still cowering.
It takes me a few days. I return to work. I go grocery shopping. It’s fuzzy, though, as if my brain can’t quite process everything. Loud noises startle me. I think people are staring at me.
I find myself running back home time after time. Out of breath. My heart pounding. Cold sweat running down my back.
And one of those days, arriving home, out of breath and patience with myself, I find someone waiting at my building entrance.
My first reaction is to panic.
Then I recognize him and some of the tension leaves me.
“Ryder,” I whisper.
“Let me help,” he says and reaches for my shopping bags, but I step back. “If you want.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Well, you weren’t answering your phone or my messages, so I wanted to check on you.”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you? His gaze weighs on me, too knowing. He was able to see right through me from the first time we met.
“Getting there.” I brush past him to awkwardly open the door while holding the bags. Then of course one of the bags rips and spills my shopping all over the sidewalk. “Dammit!”
Without a word, Ryder moves away and starts collecting my stuff. I watch him, numb, his tall frame bowed over as he gathers rolling oranges—okay that’s a lie, more like rolling chocolates, boxes of pop tarts, tubs of ice cream and bottles of soda.
He gathers everything in his arms and stalks back to me. “Shall we?”
