Which left me wary.
“Suspicious young man,” she’d said. “He wore sunglasses though the sky was cloudy as all get-out. Gave me some cockamamie story about living in your house when he was growing up. I didn’t believe him. Didn’t quite dislike him, either, but figured he was up to no good.” Her eyes had narrowed. “There was something about him that made me think he was harmless. Maybe an ex come looking for you after he saw you on the TV?”
I almost laughed at her suggestion but held it in. “I doubt that,” I’d told her, and she gave me a little harrumph in answer, not satisfied, I’m sure.
An ex. That would imply I’d have to be with someone in the first place. I’m as single as they come. I’ve never been kissed. Never been held tenderly in a man’s arms, never been made love to—and anyway, is that for real? What does making love even mean? I don’t know what it’s like, to be in a relationship.
Lack of sleep has made me anxious. Reading over the countless websites about confronting what’s been holding me back has contributed to my anxiety. I’ve followed some of the suggested steps, though, and I’ve come up with a game plan.
I’m ready to face my fears.
First, I had to make a list. It was long, but I was able to group together a few things (another suggestion from one of the sites I read), and that helped make my fears list less intimidating. Next, I rearranged my list from least scary to most scary.
The fear I’m hoping I can conquer first? The supposed easiest one? Spending extended time in a crowded public place.
The biggest fear that tops my list? Being intimate with a man.
Since that one seems so incredibly far-fetched and the hardest to face, I figure it’ll never happen.
Deciding there’s no time like the present, I set out to conquer what I thought would be the easiest item on my list. Going to a place that contains so many of my fears—a place that I can’t tell anyone about.
Guilt swamps me as I drive along the highway with the window down, the wind blowing through my hair, the salty tang of the ocean heavy in the breeze. If Mom and Brenna knew what I was doing, they’d flip out. Flip. Out. I’m sort of flipping out just thinking about it. How am I going to deal when I actually get there?
Maybe I’ve bitten off more than I can chew.
The time of year is all wrong, as is the weather, but that doesn’t seem to matter. Once I pull off the highway and start down the road that leads toward the ocean, my heart starts to race. My hands are clammy. I pass the spot at the corner of the road where Will Monroe told me to pull the hood of his sweatshirt over my head and I begin shaking.
I’m at the stop sign, waiting for the other cars to go first, envisioning myself standing on that street corner. The cars going past, the yellowish glow of their headlights streaking across a purplish twilight sky. The faint roar of the roller coaster as it zoomed along the old wooden tracks, the riders screaming in glee.
I always believed I imagined that part. Hearing the roller coaster and its riders. The screaming. It was all in my head, something I made up.
A horn honks, startling me, and I let up on the brake, pressing my foot on the gas. The car lurches forward like a meteor hurtling through space, right in the path of a vehicle that had grown impatient with me and attempted to turn left. The driver lays on the horn and the unexpected sound makes me gasp and curse.
Too late, too late. God, I’m going to die in an intersection mere miles from where I was kidnapped. Mere miles from where I was saved.
How ironic is this?
I dart across the intersection, the wheels of my car never seeming to touch the ground, which is impossible, I know. Glancing to my left, I see the irritated driver give me the double finger, his face contorted with over-the-top rage. I offer him an apologetic look and a wave, but he doesn’t care.
I’m sure he thinks I’m a complete idiot. Worse, he looks like he wishes he could choke the shit out of me.
The moment I make it through the intersection, I pull over, my wheels bumping against the edge of the sidewalk. Throwing my car into park, I cover my face with trembling hands, my breaths harsh and loud against my cupped palms.
Did I really believe I could handle this?
I pushed too hard. Too fast. Going to the scene of the crime—literally—was a crazy idea. I want to be cured. I want to be okay. I want to feel strong and carefree and confident that I can do whatever I want without a care. I shouldn’t have to worry so much, you know? I shouldn’t have to be so afraid.