“Oh, the horror.” Lark fake shuddered. “That’s kind of the point.”
“I’m not comfortable wearing a low-cut shirt.”
“Tough,” Lark retorted.
“You use that word too much,” Wren said. “You need to find a new one.”
“I only use that word with you. Because you make me.”
Wren folded her arms. “I don’t want to go to Whiskey Abbey.”
“I’d say tough again,” Lark said with a grin, “but for the sake of variety, I’ll hit you with a new word. Wrong. You would probably love to go to Whiskey Abbey, but you don’t want to leave your comfort zone. What would Sophie say?”
That was another thing Lark was saying way too much lately. Mainly because Wren had made the mistake of sharing with her sister that the therapist believed she’d turned a corner at the wine festival. Though, to be fair, Lark tricked her into confiding that.
And by trick, she meant her sister showed up with margarita fixings and Taco Bell three nights earlier, insisting it was time for their annual rewatch of Twister. She’d even shown up sporting her favorite tee that said, “I gotta go, Julia. We got cows.”
Margaritas always made Wren chatty. So in that moment of tequila-fueled weakness, Wren told Lark about Sophie’s assertion that working the wine festival had been a good thing, since it had taken her out of her comfort zone. Sophie pointed out that she’d not only survived the weekend but enjoyed it.
Of course, Sophie had been privy to more details about exactly why Wren had fun at the festival—details that had less to do with the crowds and more to do with the sex-on-a-stick vintner standing next to her—but that didn’t matter. Lark had heard those words and taken them as a green light on dragging Wren back out into the real world.
The problem was, Wren wasn’t as resistant as she thought she should be. Because Sophie’s words during their last session had bolstered her. Sophie had smiled in that calm, patient way therapists had and said, “You feel safe with Grayson.”
Wren had immediately wished she’d kept her mouth shut about the kiss and Grayson’s initial visit to the library, because Sophie had latched on to those facts like a dog with a bone.
“Feeling safe matters,” Sophie had continued. “After trauma, your nervous system learns to associate vulnerability with danger. But your body is beginning to recognize the difference between actual threat and emotional risk.”
“I still froze,” Wren had pointed out.
Sophie shook her head. “No. You paused. That’s different.”
The distinction had felt annoyingly important.
“I also pulled away,” Wren added, mainly just to be contrary.
“Not immediately. And it’s interesting to note, you regret that. You wanted more from this man because you felt safe with him.”
Wren hadn’t responded to that because she hadn’t been sure how to.
“You were nine years old when someone violated your trust,” Sophie had reminded her gently. “A family member. Someone who should have protected you, but instead frightened you. Children in that situation often learn to make themselves smaller. Quieter. Hyperaware. You’ve spent years believing safety comes from self-control and avoidance.”
She had done that.
Somehow, Grayson had broken through that control—even if just for a little while—and it had shaken Wren to the core.
Sophie hadn’t been telling her anything she didn’t know. Even Dr. Holloway had managed to explain that much to her. The difference was, Sophie always went further.
“Now, you’re experiencing moments where your instincts are telling you someone feels safe. That doesn’t mean you throw yourself into situations that overwhelm you. It just means that you’re ready to cautiously allow yourself new experiences, while maintaining boundaries you control.”
Boundaries.
Wren liked boundaries. Boundaries had walls and locks and library hours.
And then, because Sophie was absolutely wonderful at her job, she’d driven the point home. “You are allowed to say no at any point, Wren. You’re allowed to leave. You’re allowed to change your mind. Healing doesn’t require you to become fearless. It requires you to trust yourself.”
Which sounded great in theory.
But now, as Wren stood at the entrance to Whiskey Abbey in a low-cut black shirt, she wasn’t so damn sure.
