Page 62 of Oathbreaker

I’m doing something with the pain.

Maybe I did learn something in school.

My guilt about blowing Genevieve off smacks me in the face again. In the weeks since coming home, Genevieve contacted me several times. It’s clear she spoke with Veronica, who spoke with Hunter. After an embarrassing welfare check, which led to a tense verbal standoff between the police officers and Hunter’s guards at the front gate, I emailed Genevieve to let her know that I wouldn’t be coming back to therapy anytime soon, but I would be back eventually.

I don’t have any concept of when “eventually” will be. I don’t want to believe that I’m lying to her. That was weeks ago.

Shouting comes from the direction of the foyer, and I freeze for several heart-stopping seconds.

Who is it?

Why are they here?

Am I in danger?

I contemplate hiding in the closet when a familiar voice cuts through my panic. But then, dread flares up in its place.

“Winter!” Veronica’s voice cuts through the hallway, getting closer to my room. I don’t move to greet her. She’ll find me.

When the door almost explodes from its hinges as it swings open and slams against the adjoining wall, Veronica’s flushed face appears before me. I realize I don’t know what to say to my best friend.

I’m a confusing tangle of emotions. I dread seeing her pity. I’m angry at her for overstepping boundaries by talking to my therapist and Hunter. I’m sad that I haven’t been strong enough to handle speaking with her. I’m ashamed that I’ve been avoiding her.

“You found me,” I say. My face is numb, so I grit my teeth to ground myself, grateful for the feedback my healing jaw sends to my brain.

“Winter Leigh Vaughan,” she says, huffing between each name.

At least she didn’t call me Brigham.

“I have tried to give you space. I have tried to be who and what you need. But you cannot, and I mean you cannot avoid me any longer.” Her breaths come in small pants, and I’m unsure if it’s from the size of her pregnant belly compressing her lung space or if it’s from her fury. It’s probably from both.

“I’m sorry I haven’t called,” I say. It’s flat.

“Sorry? You’re sorry?” She shuffles over to a chair and sits down.

“Stop yelling before you go into early labor,” I tell her. There’s little energy behind it.

Add “shit friend” to my list of sins.

“Winter, you were missing for days. And then, when you were back, you were still gone. I can understand you needing space and seclusion, but from me?” Tears swim in her eyes, and instead of feeling the pull to comfort her, a surge of irrational anger crops up.

“Sorry that my healing from being abducted and raped repeatedly has caused me to take time to respond to your texts.” Every word is pointed, sharp. I’ve never spoken to her this way, and she clutches her chest, her mouth hanging open.

Silent, Veronica sits still for several seconds.

“Winter, I care about you. I love you. I want to help you,” she says, her voice soft.

“Yeah, well, maybe I don’t want your help! Have you ever thought of that?” Furious tears blur my vision.

I don’t even know why I’m pushing Veronica away. I do want her help. I do want her love.

And yet, a loud, angry, hurt part of me rejects her presence right now.

“You’ve made it your entire personality to save me. Well, I’m sorry, but I don’t have the energy to manage your feelings or your need to play savior.” I breathe hard, verging on hyperventilation.

“Winter,” she whispers. “I?—”

“Listen, I’m not—” I’m not, what? Not well? Not sane? Not healthy? Not a good person to be around? “I’m not able to give you what you want right now. And for the sake of what remains of our friendship, I humbly ask that you give me space to process.”

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