My parents carried me when I first got back here. They could see I needed time to heal. I ended up telling them everything, and they totally remembered Tyrell.
“Oh, he was such a nice boy. I always liked him.” Mom had smiled, then looked slightly horrified as I burst into wailing sobs.
I told them about the party and how triggering it was to see that guy on the floor. Dad had me booked into therapy within a few days.
Sitting with that lovely, softly spoken therapist made me realize I should have done this immediately after Atlas’s death. I had no idea I’d been carrying around PTSD over the night he died. I’d just mourned and tried to move on.
But therapy has been helping me to really process my grief and trauma.
I’m feeling stronger. Calmer. More capable of dealing with life.
I can do this.
I can travel and be the woman I need to be. And I’m starting to dream again. About how I want to spend my days. Of course, travel is right up there, but it can’t be the only thing. I used to love managing Atlas’s band, but I’m not about to jump back into the punk rock world.
But… what if I could take the things I loved about managing and the things I love about tending bar and combine them?
What if I could open my own place?
A jazz bar or a sports bar or some cool kind of coffee lounge. I’m not sure yet, but the idea has definitely piqued my interest. I have no idea how I’ll make it happen, and with wanting to travel as well… how can I make what little money I have work for me?
I really need to get myself a job, probably for a few years, and save as much money as I can. I’ll make that my only focus, and eventually all these dreams that are firing me up will come to fruition.
I’m still pretty set on being single, but as I carry these heavy grocery bags to my car, I can’t help imagining Tyrell beside me. He’d be carrying the bags, and I could swan along beside him, unlocking the car and driving us home. He’d probably help me unpack them, then ask me what I want to do.
He was always thinking about me, never demanding anything or putting pressure on me. I could be myself around him. I just didn’t realize I could. Or I wasn’t aware that I was just being me. And then I got scared and put all these barriers into place.
And now, I’m… I don’t know.
“He’s probably moved on already,” I mutter to myself, hating that idea with a depth that’s causing my stomach to hurt. “But he deserves to be happy.” I’m still whispering to myself, no doubt looking like a crazy person .
Dallas is probably full of friendly, gorgeous, kind women. Tyrell’s no doubt inundated with dates and invites. There’s bound to be someone he can fall in love with. His past-the-third-date girl is out there, and I won’t be surprised if he’s already found her.
“And that’s a good thing,” I say, then repeat, “I want him to be happy.”
I just wish the idea of him with someone else didn’t hurt so much.
I want to be single, right? This is whatI want.
So why don’t I feel better?
Unlocking my car, I dump the groceries in the trunk and am about to get behind the wheel when a male voice grabs my attention.
“Dani?” I whip a look behind me, my eyes narrowing until I recognize the long-haired guy loping toward me.
No way.
My body tenses like it always used to, but I hide it behind a smile… like I always used to.
“Reef.” I point my keys at him. “It’s been a while.”
“Yeah.” He slows to a stop, eyeing me up like he can’t decide if he wants to use up one of his rare smiles on me.
He still looks exactly the same, sporting his long, scraggly locks, ripped jeans, a baggy hoodie, and a beanie that looks like it hasn’t been washed—ever.
He was the bass player in the same band as Atlas, and his fashion sense could be described as stoner-skater boy from a 90s teen movie. The only thing he’s missing right now is his beat-up board.
I never 100 percent warmed to the guy. He threw off a vibe that was a completely different frequency to mine. I don’t think he liked me much either.
