No.
I’m too late.
I turn around and slide my back down the door until my bottom hits the cement stoop. I think about calling him. Texting him.
But I don’t even know what I would say.
I’m afraid everything would come out sounding like,
I want you.
I need you.
Come back.
And I know now, I know… the one who really needs to come back is me.
I wander through my front yard fifteen minutes later like a zombie, drained and exhausted. I’m so distracted by my emotional distress, I almost miss the envelope taped to my turquoise door with my name scrawled across the front.
Corabelle.
I lose a breath as I reach for the white envelope, plucking it off the door and grazing my forefinger along my name written in black ink. I swallow hard as I tear open the seal, then a gasp squeaks out between my lips.
My locket is tucked inside, along with a handwritten note:
It’s still beating.
You’re still okay.
And I still love you.
— Dean
The words blur through my tears as I choke on a sob. I reach into the envelope and pull out the familiar, golden chain with a trembling hand, pressing the envelope between my knees as I fasten the necklace behind my hair. The pendant falls between my breasts, heart to heart, and I smile at the feel of the tiny weight against my chest. Then I press my fingertips to my ribs and close my eyes, letting my heartbeat vibrate through me and fill me with peace.
Love is so many things I never thought about, never expected, never knew… and one of those things is being the best version of yourself you can possibly be, no matter how many obstacles stand in your way. No matter how dark, how hard, or how painful the road to recovery may be. No matter how many blows or setbacks try to drag you back down into the mud.
We can’t give our heart to another without loving our own first.
And that’s exactly what I plan to do.
Chapter Thirty-Two
E I G H T M O N T H S L A T E R
I’m grateful for the mild November, so I can still get on my bike and feel the breeze hit my face as my hair whips around me, tickling my nose.
It’s the little things that make me smile.
I pull up to the quaint, downtown coffee shop, locking my bicycle to the metal rack and smoothing down my windblown hair. It’s been an exhausting week at work, wrapping up first quarter assignments and prepping for exams before we head into Thanksgiving break. I’ve been looking forward to our monthly coffee date ever since my alarm clock tore me from an idyllic dream this morning, consisting of sand in my toes and his laughter dancing off each rippling wave.
I shake the reverie away, adjusting my sweater dress and plucking a rebel leaf from my knee-high boot. I sling my purse strap over one shoulder and push through the entry door, casing the small café for my dates.
“Cora!”
I glance to my left, spotting them in a corner booth, and I wave with a smile. “Sorry I’m late,” I say, still slightly out of breath from the five mile trek. “I hopped on my bike last minute—the weather was too nice.”
Tabitha beams up at me as I approach the cozy booth. “Only you could pull off looking like a movie star after a twenty-minute cardio session.”
“Hardly. I flashed a dozen people on the way over and ate half my hair,” I tease. I tug my V-neck sweater dress down, regretting the fashion choice, as I slip into the seat. I shift my gaze to baby Hope, who is still secured inside her car seat, playing with the dangling rattles and toys in front of her. “She’s getting so big.”
“She just turned ten months on Tuesday. It’s wild, right?”
“Wow.” The baby is absolutely gorgeous with tuffs of silky black hair, just like her mother’s. Her eyes are like sapphires, her cheeks round and pink. I look back to Tabitha across the table and find her gazing at me with a thoughtful expression. “What? Is there a bug in my hair?” I frantically swipe at my golden blonde tresses, while Tabitha laughs at me.
“You’re bug-free. I was just admiring you.”
I lower my arms, my features relaxing. “Oh.”
“You’re absolutely glowing, Cora. You look incredible,” she tells me, folding her hands around her coffee cup and tilting her head to the side, studying me further. “I’m proud of you.”
I let her words wash through me like a calming cleanse, my own smile blooming. The truth is, I feel incredible. Lighter. Softer. Free and weightless.
The last eight months have been nothing short of challenging, filled with uphill battles, hours upon hours of counseling and mental health struggles, and a promise to myself every single morning that I will be better than I was the day before.
I joined a meetup group for PTSD survivors and have made an abundance of new friends and kindred spirits. I took up bike riding as a form a therapy and have put on a healthy amount of weight and muscle mass, spiking my confidence levels and prompting me to splurge on a new wardrobe. I have monthly coffee dates with Tabitha, weekly dinners with my parents—along with Mandy and her new boyfriend—and regular girly movie nights with Lily and the occasional coworker. I take my dogs for a long walk every morning. I picked up summer hours at the school to keep myself busy and distracted. I listen to inspirational podcasts and audiobooks. I drink smoothies. I take my vitamins.
I even got a tattoo.
I won’t lie and say things are perfect now. I still have nightmares. I still sleep with the light on because the dark makes me uneasy. I still jump when someone touches me in an unfamiliar way, and I still mentally retreat sometimes, zoning out in the middle of a conversation when I don’t even realize it.
And… I still miss him.
But I’m healing. I’m learning. I’m growing. And there’s no going back to the person I was eight months ago—not ever.
“Thank you,” I reply softly, tucking a lock of recently highlighted hair behind my ear. “You look great, too. I swear you get prettier every time I see you.”
Her cheeks fill with rosy blush as she ducks her head, then nods to the lone coffee sitting beside me. “I ordered for you.”
“Ooh, thank you.” I reach for the drink, bringing it to my lips and sighing deep. “Vanilla cappuccino with an extra shot of espresso. You’re my hero.”
It really is the little things.
Tabitha fiddles with one of her loose bracelets as she eyes my wrist. “Your tattoo looks great. It healed up nicely.”
I glance down at the simple design peeking out from under my long sleeve. I lift my arm to give her a better look, grazing the pad of my thumb over my pulse point. It’s a heartbeat tattoo, a little EKG symbol, etched across the tiny scars I carved into my wrist with my own fingernails. It’s drawn along the exact spot Dean would comfort me, giving me a daily reminder of everything I’ve suffered through and have overcome. It’s trained me to stop scratching myself—an anxious habit I picked up post-rescue. And, well… it makes me think of him.
“Thanks,” I say. “I love it. It keeps me present—in the moment, you know?”
She nods. “I’ve been thinking about getting a tattoo to honor Matthew. Maybe Hope’s name weaved into a butterfly. Butterflies make me smile.” Tabitha takes a sip of her coffee, swallowing it down and braving her next question. “Have you talked to Dean recently?”