Page 115 of Still Beating

We can’t give our heart to another without loving our own first.

And that’s exactly what I plan to do.

Chapter Thirty-Two

E I G H T M O N T H S L A T E R

I’m grateful for the mild November, so I can still get on my bike and feel the breeze hit my face as my hair whips around me, tickling my nose.

It’s the little things that make me smile.

I pull up to the quaint, downtown coffee shop, locking my bicycle to the metal rack and smoothing down my windblown hair. It’s been an exhausting week at work, wrapping up first quarter assignments and prepping for exams before we head into Thanksgiving break. I’ve been looking forward to our monthly coffee date ever since my alarm clock tore me from an idyllic dream this morning, consisting of sand in my toes and his laughter dancing off each rippling wave.

I shake the reverie away, adjusting my sweater dress and plucking a rebel leaf from my knee-high boot. I sling my purse strap over one shoulder and push through the entry door, casing the small café for my dates.

“Cora!”

I glance to my left, spotting them in a corner booth, and I wave with a smile. “Sorry I’m late,” I say, still slightly out of breath from the five mile trek. “I hopped on my bike last minute—the weather was too nice.”

Tabitha beams up at me as I approach the cozy booth. “Only you could pull off looking like a movie star after a twenty-minute cardio session.”

“Hardly. I flashed a dozen people on the way over and ate half my hair,” I tease. I tug my V-neck sweater dress down, regretting the fashion choice, as I slip into the seat. I shift my gaze to baby Hope, who is still secured inside her car seat, playing with the dangling rattles and toys in front of her. “She’s getting so big.”

“She just turned ten months on Tuesday. It’s wild, right?”

“Wow.” The baby is absolutely gorgeous with tuffs of silky black hair, just like her mother’s. Her eyes are like sapphires, her cheeks round and pink. I look back to Tabitha across the table and find her gazing at me with a thoughtful expression. “What? Is there a bug in my hair?” I frantically swipe at my golden blonde tresses, while Tabitha laughs at me.

“You’re bug-free. I was just admiring you.”

I lower my arms, my features relaxing. “Oh.”

“You’re absolutely glowing, Cora. You look incredible,” she tells me, folding her hands around her coffee cup and tilting her head to the side, studying me further. “I’m proud of you.”

I let her words wash through me like a calming cleanse, my own smile blooming. The truth is, Ifeelincredible. Lighter. Softer. Free and weightless.

The last eight months have been nothing short of challenging, filled with uphill battles, hours upon hours of counseling and mental health struggles, and a promise to myself every single morning that I will be better than I was the day before.

I joined a meetup group for PTSD survivors and have made an abundance of new friends and kindred spirits. I took up bike riding as a form a therapy and have put on a healthy amount of weight and muscle mass, spiking my confidence levels and prompting me to splurge on a new wardrobe. I have monthly coffee dates with Tabitha, weekly dinners with my parents—along with Mandy and her new boyfriend—and regular girly movie nights with Lily and the occasional coworker. I take my dogs for a long walk every morning. I picked up summer hours at the school to keep myself busy and distracted. I listen to inspirational podcasts and audiobooks. I drink smoothies. I take my vitamins.

I even got a tattoo.

I won’t lie and say things are perfect now. I still have nightmares. I still sleep with the light on because the dark makes me uneasy. I still jump when someone touches me in an unfamiliar way, and I still mentally retreat sometimes, zoning out in the middle of a conversation when I don’t even realize it.

And… I still miss him.

But I’m healing. I’m learning. I’m growing. And there’s no going back to the person I was eight months ago—not ever.

“Thank you,” I reply softly, tucking a lock of recently highlighted hair behind my ear. “You look great, too. I swear you get prettier every time I see you.”

Her cheeks fill with rosy blush as she ducks her head, then nods to the lone coffee sitting beside me. “I ordered for you.”

“Ooh, thank you.” I reach for the drink, bringing it to my lips and sighing deep. “Vanilla cappuccino with an extra shot of espresso. You’re my hero.”

It really is the little things.

Tabitha fiddles with one of her loose bracelets as she eyes my wrist. “Your tattoo looks great. It healed up nicely.”

I glance down at the simple design peeking out from under my long sleeve. I lift my arm to give her a better look, grazing the pad of my thumb over my pulse point. It’s a heartbeat tattoo, a little EKG symbol, etched across the tiny scars I carved into my wrist with my own fingernails. It’s drawn along the exact spot Dean would comfort me, giving me a daily reminder of everything I’ve suffered through and have overcome. It’s trained me to stop scratching myself—an anxious habit I picked up post-rescue. And, well… it makes me think of him.

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