He looks at the space I’m pointing to and frowns before sighing. “It sounds ridiculous, but that’s the fifth plaque that’s disappeared. And it’s not as if they’re falling off, or I’d find them.”
“Someone’s stealing your door plaque?” I ask, not able to hide my amusement.
“I told you it sounded ridiculous. After all, what the hell would someone want them for? It’s not like they’re made of gold and can be melted down.”
I close the door behind me and take my usual seat as Michael wheels closer before locking the brakes on his chair and snagging the iPad off his extraordinarily neat desk.
“So, how have you been? I was worried when you missed out on the last few sessions.”
I huff out a laugh and, before I know it, I’m giggling like a lunatic, tears streaming down my face. He hands me the box of tissues from his desk as he waits for me to calm myself down a little. Eventually I do, though my breath still hitches in my chest when I try to breathe deeply.
“Alright, an immediate observation tells me you’re feeling overwhelmed. Do you want to talk about the possible reason why?”
“I’m not sure where to start.” I shake my head, tearing at the tissue in my hand.
“I didn’t tell you before. I don’t know why. Maybe because saying it out loud made it more real.” I swallow, my throat feeling dry. “Someone broke into my house. They drugged Star and carried her outside and locked her in the truck.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
I nod, wiping the tissue to my nose. “It sounds like something from a movie script. But it’s true. I can’t even begin to describe the sheer terror I felt. It was like history was repeating itself.”
“And Star’s okay?”
“She’s fine. She doesn’t seem to remember any of it.”
“Do the police have any leads?”
I bite my lip, knowing I’m supposed to be honest here, but there are some things I can’t say out loud without putting the club at risk.
“Nobody has been able to identify who took her. I just knew I couldn’t go back, so we packed up and moved in with my boyfriend.”
He leans back, a thoughtful look on his face. “I’m not sure you were at the boyfriend-girlfriend stage last time you were here.”
“I guess living in close proximity to someone, seeing what they’re like day in and day out, can speed up the process.”
“Hmmm…” He makes a note while I squirm, wanting to know what he means by that.
“He’s good to me, and he’s great with Star.”
“And that’s something I’m thrilled to hear. But I have to wonder if you’ve progressed this far because of your circumstances as opposed to your feelings for each other.” He holds up his hand when I’m about to argue his point. “I’m not saying you don’t care about each other. That’s not it at all. I’m more worried about you becoming reliant on him, while you’re still in the process of learning to stand on your own two feet.”
Part of me understands what he’s saying, but I can’t help but feel pissed off about it, too. Then I remember that he hasn’t seen the steps I’ve been taking, and I haven’t been here to talk about it. Things like the classes with Amity and the guys, the friendship I’ve made with Six, and the relationship I’ve been nurturing with my sister. All of that on top of having to be a good mom outside in the real world, which is full of expectations and doesn’t care about your excuses. And now I’m torn because the petty part of me doesn’t want to explain it all. After all, it’s mine. I worked on it, fought for it, and I feel stronger both mentally and physically because of it.
Does that mean I’m better? Of course not. Heck, I was sobbing not five minutes ago. There is no magic cure for trauma. No off-switch or factory reset to restore us to what we previously were. There’s only acceptance, acknowledging that things have changed. I’ve changed.
Am I broken? Yes. But I’m stronger in the places that broke because of the scar tissue left behind. I’m resilient, I’ve come to realize, resourceful, and a whole lot less angry at myself than I used to be. I know it wasn’t my fault what happened to me, even when I gave in without fighting, even when I told him I loved him and I liked what he did to me. My words were the weapon that guaranteed my survival. My brain was the only thing that helped me navigate the twisted, dark maze of my life. There is still shame there—I can admit that—but it’s laced with pride, too. I did what it took, and look at me now. I’m still standing up, still turning up, and I do it knowing Jasper’s looking up at me with hate born from the fact that I won in the end.
“Citi?”
“Sorry, I was just thinking about what you said.”
“And?”
“And I’m not looking for Ambros to fix me, and he’s not trying to. He might just be the only person who doesn’t act like I’m broken, and that includes you.”
He’s about to say something, but this time I’m the one to cut him off.
“I get that it’s your job to look out for me. But I’m looking out for myself, and every time you remind me that I’m a victim, I start thinking like one again.”
