He shook his head, his nostrils flaring. “It doesn’t matter.”
We trudged on in silence for a few minutes and his answer weighed heavily on my mind. It wasn’t good enough. He knew more than he was letting on and I was scared. Scared I was making a mistake. Scared I was walking into a trap.
“The thing is, it does matter,” I finally said as I caught up to him, so I walked by his side, my breath short, my feet aching, especially my toes. They curled tight into the cheap flip-flops, trying to keep them on my feet.
“What matters?” He sent me a wary, sidelong glance.
“Who he is to you. I need to know before I go any farther.” Where the strength came from I wasn’t sure, but I lifted my chin, hoping I looked like I meant business.
We both stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, staring at each other, our harsh breaths louder than the otherwise familiar night sounds. A dog barked in the near distance. Cars drove by, their lights passing over where we stood, illuminating us for one brief second before they were gone. A lone seagull flew overhead, its short, harsh cry sad, and I felt like that mournful sound could swallow me up whole.
“It shouldn’t matter,” Will said grimly. “He’s nothing. I’m nothing like him.”
I studied him, lights from a passing car highlighting his face, and I realized he vaguely resembled him. My kidnapper. It was the set of his mouth, the angry blaze in his eyes. Though for some reason, calm washed over me, reassuring that I’d made the right choice. I wasn’t frightened. He’d saved me. Walked me out of that hellish storage shed like it was no big deal, when it had been my prison for days.
“He’s your father.”
A muscle in his jaw flexed but otherwise, he never moved. Neither did I. We continued to watch each other until a horn honked, startling us both. “We need to go,” he muttered.
“You’re not . . .” I reached for him and grabbed his hand, clutching it tight. Too tight maybe, but I didn’t care. Looking down, I studied our linked fingers, thankful for the connection, praying that he wasn’t trying to trick me. Why this boy calmed me, I didn’t know and couldn’t begin to understand. Maybe it was the matter-of-fact way he rescued me. Without thought, without worry over what might happen to him. He was putting himself at risk by doing this. Helping me. I couldn’t forget that. “You’re not—you’re not taking me to him, are you?”
He squeezed my fingers and I didn’t flinch. I needed his reassurance. I needed to believe he wanted to save me. “No. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“You wouldn’t?” I peered up at him, never letting go of his hand. I didn’t ever want to let it go. I curled my fingers around his, felt his thumb smooth over the top of my hand, and a flutter tickled low in my belly.
“Never,” he said firmly, his deep voice in direct contrast to the fear in his eyes. His being scared reassured me as well.
But I still needed to hear his words.
“Promise?”
Will held up our connected hands. And his gaze—so serious—never left mine. “I promise.”
Confronting your fears.
I looked the words up on Google and came up with a ton of good information, devouring all of it in a matter of hours over the course of one long, sleepless night that morphed into two that turned into three. I read article after article, my eyelids heavy, my brain overloaded with tips and tricks, reassuring words and reaffirming quotes.
My insomnia had kicked in big time and I don’t like to take sleeping pills, though I’ve had some prescribed. I don’t like taking any medications. The Xanax, the Prozac, the Ambien . . . I’ve tried it all.
Hated it all, too. They made my head fuzzy. I didn’t feel right, I didn’t think right, I didn’t act like myself. I’d rather deal with the demons in my head than become dependent on drugs that dull the pain.
My appointment with Dr. Harris a few days ago left me with an uneasy feeling, one I still can’t really shed. I felt bad, yelling at her, acting like I did. I sort of came unhinged and took it out on my psychiatrist. I’m sure she’s used to that sort of thing, but I emailed her an apology anyway. She reassured me in her reply that it wasn’t necessary, but I’m glad I did it. Glad I was adult enough to realize when I threw a tantrum like a child.
Didn’t help that I came home that afternoon after our appointment and my neighbor Mrs. Anderson let me know that a suspicious man came “sniffing around my house.” I told her it was most likely a reporter looking for me—she knew who I really was, she figured it out pretty quickly after I moved in because she is truly the nosiest person I’ve ever met—but she didn’t appear satisfied with that answer.