Page 38 of Unexpected Heroine

Unfortunately, all the hard-won progress I’ve made these last days is apparently built on a foundation of match sticks. One visitor—one I adore with my whole heart—and I’m ready to crawl into a ball and hide.

After about four hours of hemming and hawing, I finally agreed to let Freya come over for a short visit. I need some things from my place, anyhow. Not to mention, it’ll be a special treat to see the world through the correct strength contact lenses.

But now that she’s on the way, I’m less enthusiastic about seeing her.

It’s not that I don’t want to see her, because I do. I miss Freya. My apprehension over this visit stems from one thing and one thing alone.

The old ball and chain.

My platonic life partner—guilt.

It’s never fun to face your fuckups. Although I know Freya won’t judge me too harshly, I’m buried up to my titties in angst. With all my emotional baggage, I’m about to greet her at the door and come face to face with the suffering that I caused her.

I suppose my feelings are to be expected, considering how I was raised.

Don’t be a bother.

Don’t be too demanding.

Don’t create drama.

And for the love of Pete, don’t be the source of someone else’s unhappiness.

Just keep your problems to yourself.

Related: Who is Pete? And why do we love him so much?

Is he the Texas hot sauce guy? Or St. Peter? Or just a random, all-around cool dude named Pete? Next time I need an ADHD distraction, I’ll dissect that one more.

Beside me on the couch, James grabs his work phone when the annoying hourly alert chimes. He taps in his code, then sets it back down.

I’m indulging my delusional side and pretending it’s not odd that each time this happens, he angles his phone away from me ever so slightly.

Totally normal behavior.

He squeezes my knee “Are you doing all right, sugar bear?”

“I’m just a little nervous.”

“About what?”

“I’m worried about seeing her pretty face all droopy with sadness. She’ll probably cry, and then I’ll cry. In the back of my mind, I’ll know I’m the cause of her grief.”

His lower lip rolls into a tiny pout. “Lettie, she’s not mad at you. Sure, she was worried, but she doesn’t blame you. Nobody does.”

I lose focus on what he’s saying. I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m too spun up in my guilt to accept the free pass. My eyes look toward the television, but I have no idea what’s on. It’s a mess of shapes and colors.

His posture stiffens when a different sound emits from his phone. “She’s here.”

My pulse spikes. I take a cleansing breath and suppress my wince. Every time I show my physical pain, it affects James. And I’m sick of hurting him too.

“Coming to the door or waiting here?” he asks, his palm extended to help me off the couch if I choose to join him.

He knows I need to stay close. Not once has he let me feel an ounce of shame for it, either.

“I’m coming.”

He helps me to my feet, waiting for me to be steady before leading us toward the front door.

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