Damsel Distressed (36 page)

“We're not talking,” I say. “I mean, I know that's obvious, but I don't know what that means. Are you, like, okay? With everything?”

He smiles wide. “Okay? Are you asking me seriously if I'm okay? Gen, I'm always okay, but today, I'm better than okay. I'm home.”

The urge to squeal like a six-year-old girl is almost overwhelming. I will not jump up and down like someone just gave me cheese fries.

I cross his path and make my way to the curb. I sit down, and soon, he's seated right beside me.

I pause for a beat before replying, “I need to say some things that you probably already know, okay?”

“Okay,” he says.

“I've got a lot I need to work on.”

“I know.”

“And there are going to be times that I really need to be alone.”

“I know.”

“And I don't want things to be weird or whatever if I tell you that I don't want you there for whatever reason. I mean, usually, being around you is one of the things that makes me happiest but—”

“I know, Gen.”

“Come on, now,” I say. “You don't know everything.”

“Well, I don't know everything. But I do know a lot. I mean, I am a third-place regional physics competition finalist you know.” He places his hands on his hips in what is meant to be an impressive superhero pose. As he drops his hands, he says, “Honestly, I think things will be pretty much the same. Not that much is changing in this for me. I know that, despite my lack of skills in the subtlety department, this is news for you, but I've had plenty of practice caring about you and loving you and, well, quite frankly, wanting to kiss you pretty much all the time. So, yeah—none of this is new territory.”

My face floods with embarrassment for the billionth time in twenty-four hours, and I avert my eyes.

“I don't completely understand it, Grant. I don't.” I look at my fingers and pick at my skin nervously. “But I'm really, really happy.”

“Me too.”

He closes the small distance between us and leans over, planting a whisper of a kiss on my lips before putting his arm around me and drawing me close to his side.

“Walk?” I ask.

“Sure,” he says.

He stands up and offers me his hand, which I use to pull myself from the curb. I shove my free hand into the pocket of my hoodie for warmth and feel a small knot of paper. I swallow hard as my body jerks to a stop against my will. I'm sure it's the little green Post-it from ages ago, scribbled with Carmella's cruelty. My fingers wrap around the crinkled object, and I pull it into the light. In my palm is the hot pink origami flower.

Maybe it's the shadows concealing words in the folds or maybe it's just this day, but the flower is gorgeous. I suppose it always was.

“What's that?” Grant asks.

“A present. Jonathan made it.”

“Is that…?” Grant gestures at the bold black marks.

“Yeah. It took some work, but it's awfully pretty for something that started out so ugly, isn't it?” I ask, squinting against the sunlight.

“It is,” he says, pulling my hand to his mouth and kissing it gently.

I place the flower back in my pocket and spare a thought for how great it will look at the top of my bookshelf.

We set off walking, and soon, in the shade of the trees and surrounded by cool autumn breezes, the laughter returns. And so does the ease of everything and the inside jokes. Oh, and some kissing. There's a little of that, too.

37

M
aybe they weren't lying. Maybe we're all just missing the point. In some cases, there's more to these stories than I thought. When I started thinking about the reasons why people do what they do—why they hurt others or act out of fear or expect other people to solve their problems—I realized that the storybooks emphasize the wrong things, like, all the time. The story with the old lady who poisons the pretty girl? It's about the old lady being afraid of not being seen as beautiful. A textbook self-esteem problem. In another story, a girl is bullied by her sisters and generally made to feel like nothing, and she believes them. It takes someone showing her—making her notice—she's special before she believes she's more than they told her she could be. At the end of the day, when the magic wore off and the clock struck midnight…she couldn't hide behind her ball gown. Like it or not, when things get scary, we've gotta be willing to at least try and make our own magic. I don't want to be a waiting-and-wanting girl. I want to be a believingand-doing girl.

I put them on pedestals like every girl does, but maybe they're more than I give them credit for. Maybe I have more in common with them than I thought.

“So, Imogen.”

“So, Therapist George.”

He smiles a little as he gathers his pen and notepad from his desk. The room is a warmer shade of brown today, and his shirt is a brighter shade of blue.

It's a good day.

Just one good day. But that's enough for now.

“What are your cufflinks today?” I ask.

He looks down to his sleeves and back up to me with a question in his eyes. “You notice those?”

“Every time.” I smile at him, and he squints his eyes before he answers.

“They're baseballs,” he says with a grin.

He sits back in his chair and flips through some of his notes. The window behind him is already open all the way, and the sun is creeping across the rich patterned carpet.

“So I guess we should talk about what happened last week?” He uncrosses his legs and sits forward a bit on his chair.

“We will, but not today.” I smile at him and scoot over, closer to the armrest so I can lean on the big brown leather couch. “Do you remember a couple years ago when I told you my mom wrote something on this huge mural at school and I couldn't find it?”

“Vaguely.”

“Well, I found it at the Rally on Saturday night.”

“Really? What did it say?”

“It was the very same inscription that I've been carrying around in my book of fairy tales since I was five. The very same.”

I bring my middle finger to my mouth and start to nibble as TG jots something down in his notes. When he's done, he looks up and says, “Wow.”

Yeah, wow.

I shake my head at him and look back out the window.

“So don't leave me hanging. What'd it say?” he asks.

I use my hands to shape the words in the space between us. “For a Happily Ever After: ‘The End' is just the beginning.”

“That's good,” he says with a coy grin. “She's good.”

She sure is.

My heart squeezes just a bit.

That ache.

The most familiar feeling I know.

“Yeah, I know. Of course, I probably should have ‘gotten' that message a long, long time ago.”

“When doesn't matter. The getting it matters. So what's it mean to you?”

“I guess just that, when it's done and you're done and everything has happened, that's when it's time to get up and start making things happen for yourself.”

He smiles. “That's a really, really good start, Imogen. I'm proud of you.”

His face is gentle.

“Thanks, George.”

“So how do you feel now?”

I close my eyes for a second, and under the hum of the air conditioner, I can hear the answer echoing through my mind.

I feel like a door has been unlocked by a key that was in my pocket the whole time.

I've been broken, but I'm not broken.

That pain won't disappear anytime soon, maybe not ever, but it's not all I have.

As I inhale, my lungs fill completely before I speak.

“It made me feel like I am whole. I am more than just the pieces that I see. I am stronger than I seem.”

I look out George's great windows and see the cloudless sky filling the wall of his office. The deep, vibrant blue spreads out before me, but I find myself looking up instead of down. A bird soars past the window, wings spread wide. Her sad song doesn't bring her down. She flies upon the strength and truth of her tune. I consider the rush and exhilaration of joy and feel certain that it's not actually a match for falling.

Maybe flying instead.

In a world of so many beginnings, it kinda makes me wonder if endings really exist at all.

Acknowledgements

Unprepared.

I've used that word a lot lately. I was unprepared for how hard it would be to turn a pile of words into a book. I was unprepared for how scary it would be to hand over that book baby to the team that will help it enter the world. And I am unprepared for the overwhelming gratitude I feel for EVERYONE who has made this possible (especially those of you that I will inevitably forget in these paragraphs).

First, I want to thank Abby. My first “fan.” You were the first person to make me feel—truly, deeply feel—like an author. I can never thank you enough for that gift.

My family has had so much practice upholding my crazy dreams. Mom, thank you for being my first true love. Dad, thank you for teaching me that aspirations are worth protecting. Clint, my weasel. Thank you for being so unapologetically enthusiastic right along with me. John, LaDonna, Thomas, Lawson, Grams, Art, and Mama Macke, I can't think of a day or a moment in my life that I didn't feel encouraged and uplifted by each of you. I am so grateful.

I am so humbled to have the most beautiful, wonderful best friends who make me better every day. Megan, you held my hand through every single step of the publishing process. I would have collapsed into a puddle of stress without your DAILY support.

Missy, my fellow mental health warrior, I am so glad I forced my friendship upon you. I'm all the better for it. Lola, my other half, my sister across the sea. Besos for always. AWWA-TIH. Jess, thank you for reading my first words, for dancing to '90s jams with me, and for sharing your gorgeous artwork with every reader of this book.

To my most faithful critique partner, Annie, you helped shape this story before it was even a story. Every time you read (and re-read) this story, I fell further into CP Love with you. You are an incredible teacher and friend. Also, huge thanks to Suzanne and Crystal for the early encouragement and critique.

Publishing is, in a word, CRAZYPANTS. Endless love to my darlings, my other sisterwives: Angi and Sarah B. And also to my sweetests, Tameka, Rachel G., Jessica L., Simon C., Dahlia, Mario, Febe, Smash, Katie (my Twinner), Summer, Hay, Emily H., Sarah G., Erin T., Alex T., Mikey, Jurassica, Jenn N., Candice, Mark O., and Jaye.

I have to thank my early readers (here's where I pray that I kept good notes): Jessica N., Dahlia, Mel S., Christine, Kari, Rachel S., Andrea H., Jennie, Jen (my Rev), Lola, Leah S., Marieke, Jacki, Sarah G., Mandy, Katie, Missy, Emily H., Rachel G., Ashley W., Jessica L., and Megan.

There are some people who will, I hope, indulge me for thanking them in groups: my debut group, We Are One Four; the OneFourKidLit community; my OBGirls; my Nestie Writing Group; the Wonderly family; the North Branch Critique Group; the Lasties; Nerdfighteria; the #Lufkin6; my friends in the DFW theatre community; my HMS and DISD family; and, of course, my incredible students (especially my Twitter angels and book club kids).

I have to thank the original members of my street team, my #OMGen crew. Thank you for being willing to champion someone and something you hadn't yet experienced: Jamie, Veronica, Jessica W., Emily, Ghenet, Rachel S., Tammy, Suzanne, Laura B., Lauren S., Carlos, Zoey, Kayla, Crystal, Tawney, Megan, Rachelia, Andrea D., Alana, Michael, Summer, Serena, Rosemond, Stephanie, Jenny M., Angi, Nik, Jessica C., Annie, Tyler, Tabitha, Antonya, Rachel, Liza, Lisseth, and Hazel.

To Jake and the team at NoStigmas, thank you for inspiring me with your endless dedication to people who are living with all kinds of mental health needs.

I can never thank my Spencer Hill family enough. Never EVER. Thank you to all who had a hand in making this book happen. Danielle Ellison, thank you for loving Gen as much as I do. Cindy and Meredith, my publicity team, thank you for helping me share this story with those who need to hear it. Kate and Patricia, thank you for your leadership and guidance. Also, I am so grateful for Briana, Asja, Lauren, Harmony, John, Becca, Sarah, and Jenny.