Page 34 of After All This Time

I owe the entire Castillo-Ryder family so much for everything they did for me back then.

Noah had no idea what was going on during that time. He was living in his own world. Not giving a shit about anything or anyone for that matter.

I hate that he wasn’t there. Not because I’m here for him now. It would’ve been the courteous thing to do, regardless of how much we hated each other. It just would’ve been nice if he was there.

If he was the one to hold me and not his sister.

If he was the one to hug me, and never let me go.

If he was the one to help with my panic attacks, read to me, hold my hand, and tell me it’s going to get easier.

Unfortunately, that’s all a fantasy inside my head that will never come true.

I shake my head, remembering where I am.

I’m home.

I take in my surroundings and try not to lose it. I’m emotionally vulnerable right now.

I see a small orange fuzzy thing run towards me.

It’s Archie, our three-year-old short-haired ginger tabby.

He’s meowing up a storm and rubbing my legs.

“Hey, little guy. I missed you,” I tell him, picking him up with both of my hands.

He kisses me on the tip of my nose.

“Come on, buddy. We’re going to take a shower. Well, me. Not you. Mom would kill me if I did that. And you would definitely hate me if I did that to you.”

I grab my suitcase, and head to my childhood bedroom.

It’s still the same as it was six months ago and even six years ago.

The walls are painted teal. The comforter on my bed is a mixture of different shades of blue with thick cream-colored blankets hanging on a diagonal towards the edge of my bed.

I gently throw my purse on my bed, turning around to face my bookcase.

My personal library is my favorite part of my entire bedroom because it’s full of books from my adolescence.

Books have always been an escape for me.

I love that I’m able to dive into an alternate universe that isn’t my own. And I’m lucky I get to experience that same feeling with writing. It’s why I want to publish my own books.

I want to make readers feel every single emotion that exists by writing characters they can relate to.

After I examine my library, I go to my closet and grab a tank top and shorts.

Heading into the bathroom, I search for a couple of towels. I’m able to find a towel for my head and a towel wrap for my body—the kind you can wrap around with velcro across the top—in the small linen closet next to the door.

God, I’m so fucking tired.

After I finish combing any tangles out of my hair, it nearly doubles in size into a wavy frizz ball from all the humidity that decided to cling on to it.

I remove my clothes and throw them in the corner behind the door.

It’s time to wash all the pain and worries away.

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