Page 111 of Caught Up In You

I think about Grace’s words for the rest of the day. What doIwant? It hasn’t even occurred to me to wonder, but I consider it as I work my shift at the bar, pulling pints and heaving kegs. As I drive home, a Debbie tape in the cassette player. As I wash myface and crawl into my bed, ready for another night of trying not to remember what it was like to fall asleep in Owen’s arms.

As I do all that, I think about it.

And just before I drift off, it comes to me.

I pull out my phone and open the text thread I’ve had going with Romy since she left Indianapolis. Last month she got word that her own tour was a go: twenty-two cities, headlining small clubs and theaters, starting in New York and ending in Los Angeles.

Romy

You know you’re welcome to join me on any leg you want. I can’t pay you, but you can bunk with me in every hotel. It’ll be like a sleepover, like old times.

That text is from a week ago, just after I told her the whole sad, sordid story about Owen. Back then the plan seemed ludicrous. I had Hazel and Eden to worry about.

But now a tour sounds like a good idea.

CHAPTER 46

OWEN

September 9

When the plywood finally comes off the living room window after two months and the sunlight pours in, I nearly gasp. It’s been covered up ever since the pineapple can sailed through it, and I forgot what it was like to have light in the living room.

After Wyatt fled my house, I taped some cardboard over the jagged glass. I swept up all the tiny broken pieces. I waited for Felix to come home and ask me how the window broke. But he just took one look at me, then set about replacing my sad, falling-off cardboard with plywood.

“I’ve always wanted to learn how to repair historic wooden windows,” was all he said.

That was two months ago.

And to my surprise, despite the laundry list of unfinished projects in our house, he did.

The window—stripped, glazed, and holding a shiny new pane of glass—is lying on the living room carpet.

“Okay, I’m going to place the window, and then you’ll hold it while I secure it,” Felix says.

I was skeptical when he told me he needed me to assist on this job, but he assured me I’d be wielding no tools, so I agreed. And my therapist has been encouraging me to try and be social again, so I figured I’d start at home alone with my brother.

Felix lifts the window into its spot, then nods for me to take his place. Once I’m holding it, he steps back.

“So how’s therapy going?” he asks, and it’s not lost on me that he lobs this question as soon as he knows I’m trapped. My stomach clenches like it always does when therapy comes up. I’m not used to letting my wounds show.

The night I cried all over Francie, finally recognizing what a disaster I was, she helped me reach out to therapists. I visited four potential providers over the next week, finally settling on a guy about my age who has a disconcerting penchant for boat shoes but not a trace of condescension in his voice.

Dr. Berry is a psychiatrist whom I’ve been seeing twice a week for three weeks. He knows about that night with Eden and what happened with Wyatt. He knows about Dylan Anders. He knows about my mother dying when I was just six. He has diagnosed me with generalized anxiety disorder, and I’ve started an antianxiety medication.

And on his advice, I’ve told my family about all of this.

“Therapy’s good,” I say, and I can practically hear Dr. Berry’s voice in my head:Say more about that. “It’s hard. I’m learning a lot about myself, but I leave exhausted. It’s going to be a long process.”

“But you’re going to keep doing it?” Felix asks as he roots through his toolbox.

“I’m going to keep doing it,” I confirm, and just saying it actually does feel good. It feels weird, since I’ve spent my whole life making sure nobody knew I had trouble with anything ever, but it feels good.

“Excellent,” Felix says. “Glad to have another fuckup in the family.”

He laughs.

And I laugh.

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