Page 63 of Oathbreaker

She stares at me for several seconds, and when a single tear falls from her eye, I feel like throwing up all over the hand-knotted rug.

Instead, Veronica gets up with as much grace as she can and says, “Thank you for sharing.”

And then she walks out the door.

The image of her stricken face brands the inside of my eyelids when I dare to close them.

Dropping my journal and pen on the floor and putting my head in my hands, my thoughts whirl around in my brain.

You know what you need to do.

I should be in therapy. Maybe on more meds. Maybe on a trip somewhere far from this place that holds so much pain.

I want to go to Paris with Hunter.

The heat of imminent tears wells in my eyes, and instead of stifling them, I let them fall.

I let the sobs exit my body. I allow myself to feel the fullness of my sorrow.

I don’t want to push everyone away.

I just want to not feel like this.

Resolved, I walk to the nightstand where I left my phone charging. I take a moment to swipe through all the notifications—the several text messages and missed calls from Veronica.

Veronica. I’m such a fucking twat.

I inhale and exhale to the count of three. Moving back to the bay window, I open my email app and start writing.

Twenty minutes later, after starting and stopping and rewriting several times, I re-read my email.

Genevieve,

It’s hard for me to talk with you face to face, even through a screen. I don’t fully understand why. The best I can guess is that by seeing you, I’ll be reminded of how much progress I’ve lost and how I’m not adapting or healing or moving forward.

It’s not a self-serving thought, I know.

If it’s any consolation, you’re not the only person I’ve been avoiding. (You’re supposed to laugh here.)

I do plan on starting therapy again, but I’m not ready. I don’t know what it means to “get ready,” either. But I’m hoping that I could maybe just...send you emails like this and maybe if you email me back, I’ll respond.

I know this method isn’t therapeutically supported, but it’s all I’ve got right now.

I’m relying on Kitty and using my emergency anxiety meds—but not too much. Maybe just enough?

I am safe.

Winter

I am safe.

My finger hovers over the send button.

I should send this message to Genevieve, but the idea of doing so sends a bolt of anxiety through me that’s so potent that I drop my phone to stifle the resulting wave of nausea.

One.

One-two-one.

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