Page 93 of Hero Mine

“Equal partners,” she muttered, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. “What a joke. I’m not equal in anything.”

She padded to the bathroom and stared at her reflection in the mirror. The dark circles under her eyes had deepened, and her skin looked pale against the dark brown of her hair. She looked like someone who couldn’t handle life—which, apparently, was exactly what Bear thought too.

The unfairness of that thought stung, and she pushed it away. Bear hadn’t kept the break-ins from her because he thought she was weak. He’d done it because he thought she wasfragile. The distinction felt important somehow.

But the end result was the same.

She stumbled downstairs, desperate for coffee, and froze in the kitchen doorway. Dirty dishes had accumulated in the sink again. Mail piled on the counter. A half-empty mug of tea from yesterday afternoon, a plate with toast crumbs.

It was happening again. This was how it had started.

“No,” she said, the word sharp in the quiet house.

She grabbed the mug and plate, rinsing them forcefully before loading them into the dishwasher. She attacked the sink next, scrubbing like it had personally offended her. By the time she started on the counter, she was breathing hard—not from exertion but from anger.

Anger at herself.

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered, yanking open a drawer to retrieve a trash bag. “Two nights in the playhouse and you’re already sliding right back to where you started.”

She swept the junk mail into the bag, then moved to the living room. The unread newspapers. The running shoes kicked off by the couch instead of put away in the closet. The growing pile ofthings to deal with lateron her coffee table.

As she gathered those papers, a small cream-colored card fluttered to the floor. Joy stooped to pick it up, turning it over in her hand.Dr. Sierra Diaz, Clinical Psychologist.The therapist she’d seen briefly in the hospital after the attack. The one who’d given her this card with a gentle “Call me anytime. Even if it’s just to talk.” The woman had lived in Oak Creek as long as Joy could remember, although Joy had never had much reason to talk to her.

Joy had nodded and tucked the card away, with zero intention of ever using it. Talking had never been Joy’s thing. She’d always preferred action.

She scrubbed a hand down her face. Action like last night? Roaming from house to shed and back? She needed something different; maybe this was it. She stared at the number, her thumb tracing the embossed letters.

“Don’t be a coward,” she whispered to herself. Before she could talk herself out of it, she grabbed her phone and dialed.

It rang twice before a warm, professional voice answered. “Dr. Diaz’s office.”

“This is Joy Davis. I, um… I saw Dr. Diaz briefly about six weeks ago, when I was in the hospital.” She swallowed hard. “She gave me this number and said I could call anytime.”

“Of course. Let me see if Dr. Diaz is available.”

Joy sank onto the couch, heart pounding. She hadn’t planned this. Didn’t know what she was going to say.

“Joy?” Dr. Diaz’s voice came through the phone, exactly as she remembered it—calm, steady, with just enough warmth to cut through clinical distance. “I’m so glad you called.”

“I wasn’t sure you would even remember me.”

“Of course I do.”

“I’m sorry for just— I don’t have an appointment or anything?—”

“You did exactly the right thing. This is why I gave you my card with this specific number. It’s a private line.” A pause. “How are you doing?”

The simple question, asked with genuine concern, nearly undid her. Joy pressed her lips together, fighting the sudden burn of tears.

“Not great. I thought I was. I cleaned my house, moved back in.” God, that probably didn’t even make sense without the backstory. Her voice caught. “I can’t seem to stay actually fixed, though.”

“Fixedis an interesting word choice,” Dr. Diaz noted. “It implies something was broken.”

“Wasn’t I?” Joy asked, quieter now. “I was sleeping out in my playhouse for over a month and even now can’t always bear to be inside my house. So yeah, I think I was broken. Think I still am.”

“Traumatized, yes. Healing, certainly. But broken? I don’t think so.” Papers rustled in the background. “Can you tell me what’s happening that has you feeling this way?”

Joy exhaled shakily. “It took some time, but I thought I was getting better. But now, I seem to be regressing.” She explained about the playhouse, how she’d ended up back in there the past couple nights, and how frustrating that was. Especially given how proud she’d been about Velvet Mornings and the success at the food truck festival.

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