I didn’t grow up with “good love.” I grew up in the trenches of fight-or-flight. Love in the Callahan house was a whispered apology after an episode or a suffocating, desperate hug when the walls were already falling down. It was there, sure, but it felt transactional.
I’ve watched Celeste and Emmy find that easy, breathing kind of love—the kind that makes you a better version of yourself. And I tell myself I’m just too hard, too jagged, too emotionless to be loved like that. I’m the girl you call to bury a scandal, not the girl you bring home to meet your mother.
The scariest part? I don’t know what to do with the way he touched me. It was five seconds of kindness, but my internal wiring is already trying to figure out how to repay the balance. In my world, kindness is just an invoice in a prettier envelope. If he’s nice to me, I owe him. And Ihateowing anyone.
Buzz.
The vibration of my phone on the nightstand makes my heart do a somersault against my ribs. I swallow hard and swipe the screen.
Beckett:What do you call a fake noodle?
I blink, reading it twice. Is this a medical thing?
Me:I don’t know.
Beckett:You’re supposed to say, “I don’t know, what?”
Me:I don’t know what you call a fake noodle, Beckett. It’s two in the morning.
Beckett:An impasta.
I stare at the screen, waiting for the punchline to get better. It doesn’t.
A bubble of air hitches in my chest, and then, before my dignity can protest, I’m laughing. It’s a ridiculous, breathless sound that echoes off the walls.
It was a terrible joke, but he’s breaking the ice. He’s reaching through the floorboards to tell me it’s okay that I fell apart.
A genuine smile tugs at my mouth as I type back.
Me:Thanks for that, but I’m still the woman who had a breakdown earlier.
Beckett:But did the joke make you smile?
Me:I’m ashamed to say it did.
Beckett:Well, now you’re the woman who laughs at my stupid jokes. Progress. Goodnight, neighbor.
I stare at the last message until the screen dims. He isn’t asking for an explanation. He isn’t demanding a deep-dive into my trauma or an itemized list of why I was crying.
He’s justthere.
And I have absolutely no idea what to do with that.
Me:Night, Doc.
I set the phone back down. The ceiling doesn’t look quite so gray anymore. I pull theduvet up to my chin, and for the first time tonight, the silence doesn’t feel like it’s trying to crush me.
Twenty-Six
I’m sitting on a folding chair in a community center basement because my brain is a broken record that only plays songs about tragedy.
My mother looked off yesterday. Nothing major, but her speech was a few beats too fast. To a normal person, it was a good day. To me, it was a countdown to a catastrophe.
Naturally, I spent hours on Google researching first aid. By 11:00 p.m., I had convinced myself that if she ever collapsed, I would stand over her like a statue because I don’t know the proper hand placement for compressions. I need to check a box. I need to feel like I’m holding the steering wheel of a car that is currently careening toward a cliff.
“Welcome, everyone,” says a woman in a floral blouse, clapping her hands with terrifying enthusiasm. “I’m Brenda. We have a very special guest tonight. He’s a trauma doctor who volunteered his time.”
I’m looking down at my notebook, my pen poised to take clinical-grade notes.
