I rushed to the closet, where I grabbed shorts and a striped coastal T-shirt. My brain spun while I dressed.
I had to tell Daniel about all this.
Right now.
It was such a huge breakthrough. My scar. I finally knew what had happened.
A weird, shaky laugh escaped when I remembered Daniel insisting I’d probably gotten the scar saving someone. Turns out, he was right.
I’d protected my mother, taken the full blast of my father’s rage so she wouldn’t have to.
Two steps at a time, I flew down the staircase. The thick red rug muffled my footsteps. The house was quiet. Daniel wasn’t anywhere in sight.
The smell of yeast and something buttery pulled me toward the kitchen. Tara stood at the counter, whipping something in a bowl. A smooth ball of dough rested on the flour-dusted cutting board beside her. She wore the apron I’d bought her yesterday. That made me smile.
Across from her, Mochi sat in his travel cage on the barstool, pecking at the mirror toy and chirping to himself.
“Good morning,” he said cheerfully, his voice glitchy and robotic.
I walked over to Mochi’s cage and leaned in with a soft smile. “Good morning, sweetheart. Morning, Tara.”
Tara looked up and smiled. “Well, look who got a good night’s rest.” Her eyes twinkled. “I think a few more days, and Mochi might be able to be free around the house. He’s very clever.”
“What time is it?” I asked, my gaze flicking to the large clock on the wall.
Ten-oh-eight.
That couldn’t be right. I hadn’t slept in past seven in...maybe ever.
“It must’ve been the two mimosas,” I mumbled, still a little foggy.
“You needed that,” she said gently.
“Where is everybody?”
“Hudson went to pick up Rascal. He has to swing by the pharmacy and gardening store too. So he might be a few. And Daniel’s out in the garden on the phone.”
I moved to the window. Daniel paced across the gravel path, his phone pressed to his ear, one hand clenched at his side. Even from here, I could tell something was stressing him.
“There’s breakfast for you,” Tara said, nodding at the marble kitchen island.
I pulled out the barstool and sat down behind a plate kept warm under a silver dome. When I lifted the lid, a soft cloud of steam rose. Eggs, sausage, roasted veggies, and an English muffin. There was even coffee.
“Wow. Thank you.” I grabbed the fork.
My chest still felt tight, but not in a bad way. Just overloaded. Disoriented. Four-seven-eight. In. Hold. Out.
This, here, was real. The dream last night—no, the memory—was a flashback.
I’d tell Daniel soon. And my new therapist.
Last night, before bed, I’d checked my inbox and seen that she’d accepted my request. I’d scheduled an online session for tomorrow afternoon.
“Are you okay with homemade tortellini for dinner?” Tara asked.
“Tortellini,” Mochi echoed from his cage. “Tortellini.”
“Are you serious? I love tortellini. That would be—”
