Page 68 of Where Broken Wings Fly

“That doesn’t help other people understand though. Everyone wants me to feel safe here, like I can somehow forget about the past. My normal isn’t feeling safe.”

I stare down at our interlinked hands. It doesn’t take a genius to know she’s feeling something pretty fucking dark. The look in her eyes is something I’ve seen staring back at me every time I look in the mirror. Existence carved from inescapable pain.

“Maybe that’s okay.” I absently stroke her knuckles, tracing each vein. “You’re allowed to feel the way you do. No one can rush you into feeling at home here.”

Willow tilts her head. “I didn’t think of it like that.”

“Just a thought.”

“Did you feel at home when you came here?”

My throat locks up with a wash of grief. “I’ve never felt at home. My home died. When Killian’s folks took us in, all I saw in their love was the potential for loss.”

“Because of your dad’s death?”

“Yeah. I couldn’t separate the two.”

Fuck knows why I’m spilling my soul amongst unharvested crops to a woman I’ve known for a matter of weeks. Willow is little more than a stranger to me. Somehow, there’s comfort in that. She can’t judge me like my family can.

Knowing that the same darkness festers inside of her makes me feel seen. Nobody else has ever made me feel like that. They can empathise, perhaps even care, but they can’t understand. Not without living inside my head.

“Killian knows a bunch of therapists.” I force myself to release her hand, though I don’t want to. “In case you wanted to talk to someone.”

“I’m talking to you, aren’t I?”

“Someone qualified. I’m just… me.”

Willow offers me a sad smile. “Micah, I have a feeling you’re far more qualified than any shrink to talk to me about this.”

The sound of my choked laugh is foreign. “Killian sent me to a therapist for most of my teens and early twenties. I gave up a year or so ago. I think I’m beyond fixing.”

“Maybe you don’t need to be fixed. You said it first. Not everything has to be okay.”

“Tell that to him. He’s determined to make me normal.”

An unfamiliar ache sears beneath my skin as I subtly watch her from the corner of my eye. I don’t know what I’m feeling. My hike feels pointless now. I’d rather sit here and talk to Willow for another hour, or even longer.

Staying detached has been my saving grace. It’s kept me alive as we suffered loss after loss. So much death has a way of changing the way you see the world. Caring for others becomes little more than another potential for loss.

But with her, I’m yearning for something that I can’t find in myself. An intimacy. A closeness that my lifeless clay and pallets of oil paint can’t provide.

“Anyway,” she says hoarsely. “Thanks for the pep talk.”

I nod reluctantly. “Anytime.”

“You’re a good friend.”

“Friend?”

Her smile is so pure and innocent. “I could use a friend.”

“I’ve… never had one of those before.”

“You don’t have to,” she rushes out.

“No,” I cut her off. “I’d like that.”

Willow opens her arms to offer me a hug. Seized by fear, I bury it down deep and let myself be drawn into her embrace. Her hair smells like strawberries, sweet and sugary. Lola’s endless supply of homemade cookies has left a homey perfume on her clothes.

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