Page 35 of Sweet Redemption

You seem to have moved on.

Serena

Are you kidding me? Is this about Rafe? You don’t get to do that either!

Hendrix

I’m sorry. I just wanted to see if you’re okay.

Serena

Why wouldn’t I be?

Wait, don’t answer that.

I’m not doing this with you. You made your choices, and I made mine.

Hendrix

Serena . . .

Serena

Good night, Hendrix.

There. I didn’t tell him to fuck off. I didn’t cry. My hands only shook a little. Well, that’s a lie. They shook a fuck-ton. But I feel like this is progress.

SERENA

Windows down. Music loud. Hair up.

Questionable dance moves and even worse singing happening.

Do not judge me at a red light. I’m just trying to survive.

—Serena’s Secret Thoughts

Some people are bath people. They love to luxuriate in the warm water and read a book or drink a glass of wine. I’m barely a shower person. Not like I don’t take showers—because I do, every day. More like I don’t want to be in there any longer than I have too.

My mind rarely shuts off, and confined spaces don’t do me any favors. I obsess over everything. Every choice I’ve made that day. Every argument I should have had but was too much of a people-pleasing pushover to fight back. All the things I could have said but in the heat of the moment never occurred to me. In the shower, I win all the arguments.

Sometimes, I think that’s why I love soccer so much. On the field, the noise stops. It’s the ball and my team and me. We all have the same goal. And I don’t second-guess myself.

I have a place and a purpose.

Something I’m seriously lacking at the moment, which hasn’t helped my anxiety.

Audiobooks have helped. They keep my mind busy. Something I’ve learned makes all the difference. White-noise machines don’t work. I need words. The more familiar, the better. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve re-listened to some of my favorite romantasy books. They’ve quickly become comfort reads . . . or more specifically, listens.

But tonight, I’m drying my hair when Violet is about to break her armoire, and my phone rings with Mom’s ringtone. Because apparently, today hasn’t been enough of a shit show.

“Hey, Mom.” I switch her over to speaker and bring her with me into my bedroom to throw on pajamas.

“Hi, honey. How are you?” Daphne Kingston isn’t like most of my aunts. She’s not as loud or as in your face. Not that in your face is a bad thing, but most of my aunts wear their power on their sleeves. Mom’s heart is so big, there’s no room for anything else to be there. She’s softer. Easier-going, for the most part, but just as powerful. She just wields her power softly, with a designer-labeled velvet glove instead of a closed iron fist.

She’s also constantly trying to soften the blows Dad doesn’t realize he’s throwing. She’s done it my whole life.

“I’m okay. How about you?” I look at the time as I slide on my cotton shorts. “It’s a little late for you. Is everything okay?”