“Yeah,” I whispered. “I think I’m ready to shake something.”
“I’m not sleeping again,” I admit, arms crossed as I stare at the corner of the office. The walls are warm. The diffuser puffs out some lavender mist like it’s enough to drown out my memories. It’s not.
“I scream into my pillow sometimes,” I continue, not bothering to look at her. “Or I go up to the cliffs and let the wind take it. I yell until my voice cracks. I pretend the sea can carry it far enough that it stops haunting me.”
Dr. Bauerleans forward a little. “That’s something,” she says gently. “But sometimes… you need more than wind and pillows.”
I laugh, dry and sharp. “Like what? Punching someone? Burning things?”
She smiles, not in a mocking way—more like she gets it. “Actually… smashing things works wonders.”
I blink. “I beg your pardon?”
“You’re not the first girl who’s come to me holding rage and pain like a second skin.” She pulls out her tablet, tapping through something. “There’s a group I recommend every summer. Some of my patients hike up to a spot in Maine. In the woods. Remote. We bring goggles, safety gloves, and loads of breakables—old glass bottles, plates, ceramics. We smash them.”
I stare.
“Others chop wood. Some scream into the trees. There’s something about releasing pain with your whole body that helps the heart breathe again.”
“That’s therapy?” I ask, trying to keep the edge out of my voice.
She smiles. “You bet it is. Controlled chaos can be incredibly healing.”
She swivels the screen toward me. “Here, I’ll email you the link. Doesn’t mean you have to go. But it’s there if you need it. If you want it.”
I look at the photos of people mid-smash, faces wild with release. I can't lie—it calls to something deep in my chest.
“I don’t know what to do with the anger,” I whisper, eyes still on the screen. “Or the bitterness. It’s thick. Like tar. It sticks to everything. Sometimes I feel like I’ll never be clean.”
She nods. “You don’t have to know yet. But the fact that you’re here, trying… That means you haven’t given up. And you don’t have to carry that weight alone anymore.”
And for the first time in a long time, I believe her. Maybe not fully. Maybe not forever.
But just enough.
I step out of therapy into the crisp December air, coat zipped halfway and scarf pulled tight around my neck. Newport’s dressed to the nines—twinkling garlands on lampposts, wreaths with burgundy ribbons on every café door, and that faint scent of cinnamon drifting from somewhere I can’t place.
And maybe it’s the therapy talking, but I feel... not fixed, not healed. But clearer. Like I finally said something I needed to hear out loud.
I spot Alina, one of my lead attorneys already inside the café we picked. She’s by the window, sharp in her cream coat and gold hoops, already halfway through her oat milk cocoa and poking at her tablet like it owes her money. The bells over the door jingle when I step in, and she looks up.
“There she is,” she says, standing to kiss my cheek. “You look... less haunted.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, cracking a smile. “I’ll take it.”
The café smells like baked sugar and peppermint. They’re playing old-school Christmas tunes—Bing Crosby crooning about white Christmases while couples share desserts the size of their heads. I order the peppermint cocoa and a grilled cheese with tomato soup, because my body is still learning how to feel safe enough to be hungry.
Once we sit, Alina flips her tablet closed and goes straight for the throat.
“They want an answer this week, Jade. About the settlement. We’ve got three different firms circling, ready to pitch exclusive profiles if you walk away from the NDA. But once you sign?—”
“I’m not signing,” I say, cutting her off.
She pauses. Blinks. “You’re... sure?”
“I don’t want their hush money,” I say, steady now. “I don’t want to trade justice for silence. I want my story out there. I want my name back.”
Alina leans back in her chair, eyes scanning my face like she’s making sure I’m not bluffing.
