Maybe it’s time to ask for help.
∞∞∞
The student clinic is on the opposite end of campus, so I take the bus. Normally I’d walk, but not today. No way I’m hoofing it across campus in October heat with anxiety sitting heavy in my chest.
The bus drops me in front of a red-brick building with a crisp white awning that readsUniversity Health Center. It’s nicer than I expected, with rows of windows, sleek lines, and white trim. It looks more like a boutique hotel than a clinic.
Swallowing my nerves, I step inside. There’s a short line at the front desk. Students ahead of me wait their turn, shifting from foot to foot, scrolling through their phones. I join them, trying not to fidget. The building rises above me—three stories of glass and white walls. I was expecting some small dingy doctor’s office. Not… this.
This feels good. It feels safe.
The front desk staff moves fast. When it’s my turn, I give my name, and the woman tells me to take the elevator to the third floor and follow the signs to Counseling and Psychiatric Services.
I arrive early. Too early. I pre-filled the forms online, so there’s nothing left to do but sit and wait. My stomach knots as I twist a strand of hair around my finger. Wind. Unwind. Repeat.
Finally, one minute before my scheduled appointment time, the receptionist calls my name. She leads me through a quiet hallway lined with closed doors. A few are open, revealing soft lighting and cozy furniture.
We stop at a door with a brass plaque:Dr. Laura Grant.
“You can wait here. She’ll be in shortly,” the receptionist says, then slips out, closing the door behind her.
I perch on the edge of a brown leather couch feeling awkward and a little exposed. The room is small but thoughtfully put together. Across from me is a matching chair, and behind it, a window that overlooks my favorite dining hall. Students stream past it, laughing like nothing bad ever happens.
My eyes drift to a bookshelf near the window. Typical titles on trauma and grief line the shelves, but also, novels. Ones I actually recognize. For some reason, that small detail makes me like her already.
There’s a soft, polite knock, then the door opens.
A woman walks in—mid-forties, dark hair swept up, glasses perched on her head. She wears dark jeans and a fitted blazer. Her style is quiet but intentional. Her smile is warm but not forced. Immediately, I feel at ease. This feels right.
“Caroline?” she asks.
I nod, sitting up straighter. “Hi. Yes.”
She crosses the room and settles into the armchair. With practiced grace, she opens a thin file that contains my intake forms, I assume. After a precursory glance, she sets it aside. Her posture is relaxed. Her hands fold neatly in her lap.
“Why don’t you tell me, in your own words, why you’re here today?”
My throat tightens. I twist my fingers in my lap, searching for a place to start. How do you sum up trauma in one sentence?
I take a shaky breath.
“Hi,” I say softly, forcing eye contact. “I’m Caroline Collins. I’m in Witness Protection because my stepfather, who was also my abuser, murdered both my mother and my stepmother. And now, he’s stalking me.”
Her eyebrows lift. Not judgmental, just... surprised.Understandably. To her credit, she recovers quickly. Opens the file. Pen in hand.
And just like that, we begin dissecting my trauma.
For the next hour, I talk more than I have in months.
Chapter 4
Nik
The brush glides up and down against the wood, smooth and rhythmic, as I apply the final coat of stain to a baby’s crib. My stereo blasts classic rock from a corner of the workshop, a gritty guitar solo echoing off the industrial walls. The familiar scent of sawdust, oil, and pine settles into my lungs.
My shop sits just on the outskirts of Nashville. The space is old, with exposed beams and brick, but it has character. Axel and I live in the small apartment above, and since I opened my doors two years ago, business has been steady. Turns out, people love custom furniture. Cribs, tables, hope chests… anything they can slap the word “handmade” on. I stay busy, and for the most part, I like it that way.
The bell chimes over the front door. I glance up and catch Axel’s silhouette. He gives me a small wave, and I grin in return before refocusing on my project. A moment later, I feel his arms slide around my waist from behind. He presses a kiss to the side of my neck, sending goosebumps rippling across my skin, and then rests his cheek between my shoulder blades.
