Page 104 of Cuffed By Your Love
Dr. Scott’s voice was gentle but unshaken. “You are grieving, Jonay. You’re grieving the little girl you loved, not the woman she became. Those are two different people.”
I shook my head, trembling. “But it feels like relief. And that makes me sick. The way she died—messy, violent, tragic—it feelslike she was racing toward it. And a part of me thinks she wrote her own ending. And that thought makes me cold.”
“No,” Dr. Scott said, firm now. “It makes you honest. You don’t owe her a performance of grief. You can love the child she was and be honest about the woman she became. Both truths can exist.”
The words gutted me.
“I prayed for Kam’s peace,” I whispered, “but with Taleah,… I don’t even know what to pray. I loved her once. But she thrived on my pain. Even in death, she feels like she won because now I’m the one carrying guilt.”
Dr. Scott’s eyes softened. “Stop grading your grief. Numbness, anger, and tears are all valid. Grief is not one-size-fits-all. And Taleah’s choices are not your burden to carry.”
I broke then, sobbing ugly, clutching the stone so hard it bit into my palm.
“I don’t even know which version of her I miss,” I confessed. “The cousin I played double-dutch with? Or the woman who laughed when Kam betrayed me? I don’t know which version of me she’d haunt, if she could.”
Dr. Scott reached across and held my hand. “Then let her rest. Don’t let her ghost live in you. You don’t owe her pain. You owe yourself peace.”
Something inside me loosened. For the first time since Taleah died, I let myself breathe without shame.
Maybe healing wasn’t about crying the right way for the dead. Maybe it was about choosing to live for the living.
By the time I left that third session, I wasn’t healed. I wasn’t whole. But I wasn’t shackled either.
I had my grounding stone. My affirmation cards. My voice cracking but trying. My heart bruised but still beating.
And for the first time in a long time, I believed what Dr. Scott said. I wasn’t broken beyond repair.
I was enough.
And I was choosing me.
The gravel crunched softlyunder her tires as Jonay pulled into the driveway, the sky bruised lavender and gold from the setting sun. My heart picked up just hearing her engine. Therapy days always left me on edge, half proud she was doing the work, half scared she’d come back looking at me like distance was still the answer.
I was already on the porch, arms folded, waiting. The second she shifted the gear to park, I was moving, long strides cutting through the quiet. I reached her door before she even touched the handle, pulled it open like it was my sacred duty, and offered my hand.
“Hey, gorgeous,” I said, my voice lower than I meant.
She slid her hand into mine, delicate but certain, and I helped her out like she was something I’d been sworn to protect long before I knew her name. She looked tired, yes, but not broken. Therapy had pressed on her edges, but she wasn’t shattering. She was glowing faint, like embers instead of ashes.
I leaned down and kissed her lips, tasting road dust and courage. When I pulled back, I kept my forehead against hers. “How was it?”
Her lashes fluttered. “It was… good. Hard, but good. Dr. Scott made me look at things I keep trying to outrun.” She searched my eyes, steady this time. “But I’m done running, Eli. I know now. I’m capable of this. And I deserve this. I deserve you.”
Something hot and sharp cracked in my chest. Relief. Rage at everything that had ever convinced her otherwise. And love, layered and heavy, coating my bones.
I kissed her again, deeper this time, gripping her hand tight, like if I let go, the world might snatch her back. “Damn right, baby. You deserve all this and then some. Come on inside. I have something for you.”
The house was warm when we stepped in, soft music low, the kitchen glowing with the buttery light of candles. The smell of garlic and lemon hit first, then the white wine, the kind of scent that clang to the air like a promise.
Her eyes widened when she saw the table. Shrimp scampi steamed in a wide white dish, garlic bread golden at the edges, and her favorite Chardonnay already uncorked.
“Eli…” Her voice was a whisper, her throat already tightening.
“Sit down, Deputy Gorgeous,” I teased, guiding her to the chair like it was a throne. “Detective Fine Shyt is on duty tonight.”
She laughed, wet and soft, and it was the sound I lived for.
I fixed her plate myself, laid the shrimp across twirls of pasta, added bread, and poured the wine. I set it in front of her and sat back, just… watching.
