Page 108 of Roughing It

Give me ten.

Ten minutes lets me grab my laptop, top off my coffee, and grab enough blankets to build a small nest on the porch swing. As I’m adjusting the pillow I snagged off the bedbehind my back, the familiar face of my therapist takes me in.

“Hi, Blakely.” Her appraising eyes flicker over my face. “You look radiant.”

The unexpected compliment throws me off. Camila’s always kind and polite, but she rarely comments on my looks or anything related to that. What does she see that’s different enough that she feels compelled to say something?

“It’s good to see you. How have you been?”

Shaking my head, I refocus. “Considering I messaged you before nine a.m. for an emergency session, not great.”

She raises her eyebrows, takes a couple of notes, then says, “At our last appointment, we talked about loneliness and the pressures of maintaining your social media persona. How have you been feeling about that lately?”

“The same. Worse? Better? I don’t know.” I look around the cabin, hunting for something to stare at instead of meeting Camila’s penetrating gaze.

“Remember, you don’t have to answer if you aren’t ready. Give yourself permission to breathe.”

I lick my lips and shift. She gives me wait time. I hate wait time. “On one hand, I’m happier out here than I’ve been in years. And with each day, I find myself less driven to post, obsessing over fewer comments, ignoring my phone altogether.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

“Honestly?”

She smiles.

Duh, Blakely, of course, your therapist wants you to be honest.“Freeing.”

“How so?”

I lean back against the couch, chewing the inside of my cheek. “Hudson doesn’t need the show. The drama. Hewants to be with me. And the me out here is a me I like. I don’t have to put on a production to start the day. When I talk, he’s here. Granted, he doesn’t say much, but he’s listening. Always. And at night…” I swallow as my skin flushes. “Apart from the physical attraction, it’s so nice not being alone.”

We spend another forty minutes exploring the current situation with my mother and what I can do to protect my emotional well-being. After talking with Camila, I come to a few decisions. The biggest one being I’m not paying my mother anything—money or attention—and I won’t run from her threats. If she continues posting stories from my childhood, I can handle it.

I think.

Ugh. It was easier to be confident within the supportive cocoon of my therapy session. I run a finger over my dark phone screen. Yesterday afternoon, the first post came out. Followed by a slew of new messages.

I’m not delusional. I’m not a celebrity or anyone of importance. My followers finding out I came from nothing isn’t something to be ashamed of. If anything, I should be proud of how far I’ve come.

The likelihood of her “secrets” impacting me financially is low. I didn’t do anything illegal. I was poor. I dropped out of high school. And yeah, I changed my name, my face, my hair color, my entire personality…

The familiar stamp of Hudson’s boots on the stairs and the creak of the wooden porch are welcome distractions.

Throwing the blankets to the side and dropping my laptop, I run and jump into his arms. My lips find his in an instant, like they’ve always known him. I close my eyes at his touch, his hands large and warm against my skin.

“I missed you this morning. I had plans.”

Hudson pulls his head back, his green eyes full of questions. “You missed me, huh?”

I run my nose down his corded neck, taking in his spicy, woodsy scent.

“And here I left you a note so you wouldn’t worry.”

“A note? Really? I didn’t notice.” I nip his full bottom lip. “FYI, I’d rather wake up to findyouon me. Not a note.”

Hudson’s fingers tighten their grip on my hips. “I’ll keep that in mind.” The deep baritone of his gruff voice is like a physical caress. “Also, you aren’t wearing any pants.”

“Oh? How silly of me.”

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