by Meghan Quinn
Hope springs in my chest. “That would be great. What else?”
“We are keeping an eye on her, and every day we’re going to challenge her to at least help us with Hailey, using the excuse of first-time parents, but it’s really to get her out of her room. Maybe convince her to help us out at the gym as well. Stryder thought he could convince her that we’re short-staffed since I’m with Hailey. The athletes will at least put a temporary smile on her face.”
The tension in my chest starts to ease.
“Okay.” I let out a deep breath. “What about me, what can I do?”
“You’re not going to like this, but I think you need to stop texting and calling her.” Fuck. No.
“No.”
“Here me out, Colby. Every time you call and text her, you’re reminding her how she thinks she’s not good enough for you. It’s a setback, not a step forward.”
I scratch the side of my jaw, irritation fluttering in my veins again. “No. I’m not going to stop talking to her so she believes this is really over. I’m sorry, but that’s non-negotiable. She needs to know I’m still here.” She needs to know I’ll never give up on her. On us. That she’s my everything.
“I understand.” She takes a second to think, and then it’s almost as if I can see her smile through the phone from the happy tone of her voice. “Okay, I have an idea.”
“Hit me.” I will do anything to make this work.
“Remember when we were dating?”
“Yeah,” I drag out suspiciously.
“One of the things that helped me through our time apart was your letters. They were so rich and full of the soulful man you are. They touched me deeply. Write letters to Ryan. I will make sure she reads them, even if I have to read them to her myself.”
“Letters.”
“Letters,” Rory repeats.
“And you think that’s going to help?”
“She needs to learn to love herself first, but I think it will start to offer her broken soul another perspective. And hopefully, it will give her the courage to seek the help she needs, knowing that you love her and always will.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
RYAN
“Are you comfortable?”
I shift in my seat and nod, even though I’m the furthest thing from comfortable. I spent two hours getting ready for this meeting, not wanting to look like the wreck Rory probably told this lady I am. I didn’t want to walk into her office with bloodshot eyes and snot-stained sleeves. It’s not a good look . . . on anyone.
Samantha Love—yes, that’s really her name—gently smiles at me. “Rory said you might want to sit down and have a conversation.”
I love how she says that. “Have a conversation.” Let’s call a spade a spade, lady; this is therapy.
When Rory first suggested I work with Samantha, I had no intention of showing up . . . until my dad got involved. He begged me to speak with this woman, and it about broke me seeing my dad so upset. So I made a conscious decision. Even though this is going to be a long and painful road, it’s time to stop sulking and try to heal.
It’s why I moved away from Vegas to begin with, to get healthy.
But I hit a roadblock along the way.
I had no idea what impact saying bye to Colby would have on me. And now he’s in Korea . . . Korea.
“Can I be honest with you, Samantha?”
“Yes, always.” She folds her hands over her notepad, and I wish I felt her calm.
“I really don’t want to be here, even though I know I need to be. I’ll be frank. I hate myself. Everything about me. Name it, I hate it. My self-love is zero. I moved back to my hometown because I was drowning in self-hatred in Las Vegas where I had a decent job as a makeup artist, great friends, and an amazing boyfriend. I left it all to come back here.”
“Why?” It’s a non-judgmental question, more curious than anything.
“To find myself.”
“And have you started that journey?”
I shake my head, feeling slightly ashamed.
Leaning forward, she gives me a small smile. “Well guess what, Ryan? This is your first step, being here, talking to me.”
“I’m fucked up, Samantha.”
“Aren’t we all in some way?” She grins, knowing she just shocked the hell out of me with that answer. “It’s really how we let the fucked-up part of our life affect us that defines who we are as a person.” She winks. “Ready to get to work? You have to put in the hours. I’m willing, are you?”
Okay, maybe this won’t be so bad after all.
I nod. “I’m ready.”
“Hey, how was your first session today?” Rory asks, burping Hailey on her knee, looking like the warm mother I always knew she would be.
I hang my purse on the coatrack next to the door and take off my jacket. “It was good. Samantha likes to swear.”
Rory laughs. “Yeah. She’s unconventional; that’s why I thought you’d like her. She’s not going to sit there and make you talk. She’s interactive and fun. I think you two will get along very well.” She nods toward the kitchen. “I have dinner on the stove. Chili, if you want to serve yourself a bowl.”
“I’m okay.”
She raises a stern eyebrow in my direction. “Ryan, what did I tell you the other night? If you’re going to live here, you’re going to eat three appropriate meals a day, go to therapy, and change at least one diaper a day.”
I chuckle, remembering her “tough love” talk after my dad left. She made it clear she can’t force me to go to therapy, but if I wanted to set a good example for Hailey, I should start helping myself. And damn it, she was right.
“Now, go get some damn chili and don’t make me ask you again.”
“Yes, Mom,” I drag out as I make my way to the kitchen. I pull a bowl from the cupboard and give myself a generous portion that Rory will approve of. I take it to the living room and sit on the couch across from her. “Stryder still at the gym?”
“Yeah, Wednesdays are his late nights. He should be home soon.”
She watches me as I eat, making sure I chew and swallow. “You can stop staring at me; I’m eating it.”
“Just making sure.” She winks and then casually nods at the coffee table. “So, you got some mail today, but before you open it, I want to make sure you’re doing okay.”
“What kind of mail?” I scan the table but everything is turned upside down, so I can’t see a damn thing.
“Mail that I know helped me years ago. Mail I hope will help you now.”
“You’re being vague.”
She scoops Hailey into her arms and starts patting her butt as she gently sways her back and forth. “It’s from Colby.”
I have a spoonful of chili halfway to my mouth when I freeze, my heart plummeting as my eyes bolt to the coffee table again.
“Why? Why would he do that? He stopped attempting to contact me last week.” I both hated and loved him for trying to keep in contact, but when all communication stopped, I nearly lost it. But I’m not well enough, so it was right he stopped. But now? “He’s in Korea, so why would he write me?”
Leaning forward, she picks up the envelope and hands it to me. “Why don’t you find out?”
I set my chili bowl on the table and take the letter from Rory, flipping it over, seeing his very precise handwriting. The letter is addressed to me, care of Rory Sheppard. I run my hand over the ink, the thought of him touching this very envelope sending a thrill through my bones.
“Go on, read it,” Rory encourages with a smile.
With shaky hands, I tear open the envelope and unfold the paper, sitting back on the couch as I stare at his penmanship, in awe of how neat and beautiful it is.
Curious and scared. Hopeful and panic-stricken. I have no idea what I’m meant to feel right now.
Dear Ryan,
It’s the night before I leave for Korea and I’m sitting in my house, scanning the empty living room, the kitchen with no food in it, and the picture-le
ss walls. It feels surreal that in less than twenty-four hours I’ll be on my way to a different country, thousands of miles away from you and yet, in this empty, white space all I feel is you.
You standing at the door, smiling and waiting for me to greet you with a kiss.
You sitting on the couch, curled up into a ball, staring at me in the kitchen as I fix you dinner.
You on the counter of my kitchen, naked and writhing on my tongue as I make you come before breakfast.
You’re everywhere. Your smell is engrained in the fibers of the carpet, of my clothes, of my bedding. Your laugh still bounces off the stark-white walls of this house you helped make a home. And those freckles on your nose I loved counting in the early hours of the morning while you slept? They’re a pattern I continuously see wherever I look.
You might live in another state, and tomorrow in another country, but the distance is only in my mind, because you’re forever in my heart. It will be your beautiful face I see every morning as I wake and every night before I go to sleep. It will always be you.
I won’t stop loving you. I won’t stop writing. And I won’t stop feeling you everywhere I go. You’re ingrained in my soul.
I love you.
Your man,
Colby.
I read through tears, taking my time reading every single word until I finally look at Rory who has a huge knowing smile on her face.
She pats me on the leg and says, “You’re in for one epic ride. I hope you’re ready for it.”
“Are you doing anything after this?” Samantha asks.
“No. I literally don’t do anything besides come here and hang out at Rory and Stryder’s house. Occasionally I see my dad, but that’s about it.”
“So why are you wearing so much makeup?”
I blanche, starting to feel self-conscious all over again and Samantha catches the change in my mood. “I’m trying to understand your intentions, Ryan, not judge you. Remember, this is a no-judgment zone. Be honest and I’ll be honest.”
I nod, knowing this is a safe place. I was caught off guard for a second, because it’s something my mom would say to me. “Honestly? Because I don’t feel comfortable without it. I barely feel comfortable with it.”
“Have you always used it as a shield?”
“Ever since I can remember being able to wear makeup, I never went a day without it. At first it was light, some mascara and lip gloss, but then every year my routine grew.”
“How long does it take you to put on your makeup?”
I shrug. “After contouring and blending everything? Forty-five minutes maybe.”
Samantha makes a note. “Okay, on Friday, before you come in, I want you to put makeup on, but I want you to time yourself. Thirty minutes. Decide what’s really important, and do it in half an hour. It’s a training technique. Think you can do that for me? A little makeup homework?”
“Are you saying you want me to remove a few things from my makeup routine?”
“That’s exactly what I want you to do, and then we’ll go over it on Friday. How does that sound?”
“Like torture.”
“Good, then we’re starting to get somewhere.”
Dear Ryan,
When I was stationed at Luke in Phoenix, I remember being so new to flying, trying to earn my place in an F-22, that I never really had time to think. I was constantly studying, putting in flight hours, and doing everything I could possibly do to make sure I was prepared to take on the massive piece of machinery.
I never had a chance to get acclimated to the area because I was so busy.
By the time we were PCSed to Nellis, I was more established as a pilot, I had a schedule I was starting to get used to, and the rush started to slow down. We had TDYs and deployments overseas that were strenuous and tiring, our brains being pushed to their limits as well as our bodies.
I can remember the first time I came home from a deployment. We flew our jets to the base, landing on the tarmac in a row, pilots’ families and significant others lined up to welcome us home. It was heart-warming but also disappointing. I didn’t have anyone standing there, waiting for me. I was stationed at a base where I was supposed to grow as a man, but it never felt like the kind of place I could call a home.
That was until you came along.
When you were with me, holding my hand, sitting next to me on the couch, sleeping in my arms, it was the first time Nellis didn’t feel like a station, because it felt like a home.
You’re my home, Ryan. Wherever you are, you are my home.
I love you.
Your man,
Colby.
“Tell me more about your mom.”
I sarcastically laugh. “How much time do you have?”
Playfully, Samantha smiles. “Give me the down and dirty. Describe her in three words without using the word fucking.”
I draw circles on the arm of the couch with my finger, truly thinking about the words I want to choose. “Manipulative. Condescending.” I pause, thinking about the last one, and finally land on the one word I really hate, “Perfect.”
Looking up from her notepad, she lifts an eyebrow. “Perfect?”
“Yeah, perfect.”
“Okay, let’s dive into that little revelation. What makes your mom perfect?”
“It’s what she strives to be every day. Her clothes are perfect for the day and weather. Her hair is always perfect, not a stray strand out of place. Her makeup is always perfect, never melting or smearing. And the way she speaks, presents herself, her body, everything about her is so perfect it’s sickening.”
Samantha taps her pen. “What standard of perfect is she following?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, there are all different sides of perfect, wouldn’t you agree?” My thumb rubs over my tattoo on my left wrist. Colby’s encouragement to always stay on the left side brings raw emotion I’m not ready to show in a therapy session.
“Yes,” I answer softly.
“So who really is the judge of perfect? What scale are you measuring your mom on?”
“Um, society’s scale?”
She clicks her pen and sets it on her notepad. “Did you know in different societies, perfect is measured differently? A woman’s perfection can be measured by how many children she has, how many rings around her neck, or even how much she provide for her family. You could be perfect in one society, but a hot mess in another. There is no way to measure perfect, not in this world, not when everyone is imperfect in their own right.”
I swallow hard and say, “Colby always tells me to be on the left side of perfect.”
“What’s the left side?”
I hold up my wrist and show her my tattoo. “The left side of perfect is the kind of soul-baring perfect that shows your every flaw for the world to see . . . the imperfect.”
A large smile grows on Samantha’s lips as she makes a note. “If that isn’t one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever heard, I don’t know what is.” She looks at me. “Be on the left side, Ryan, always be on the left side.” I’m trying, Samantha. So hard.
Dear Ryan,
When I was young, when my dad was still alive and my gramps was a constant visitor at my house, I laughed and enjoyed life. We were the three amigos—flying planes, talking about them, living and breathing anything that belonged in the clouds.
And then my dad got sick. I watched the joy slowly evaporate from his body with each passing day. It was as if there was a slow vacuum hooked up to him, taking his life, turning him into a man I barely recognized in the days before he died.
He died on my birthday. I still remember how cold my mom sounded when she told me he’d died. I can hear Gramps crying in the distance, and I often recall the feeling of absolute despair knocking the breath from my lungs.
My life changed after that. It became harder, challenging, and not in a good way. I can’t quite remember many happy times after my dad passed, only a few moments with Gramps.
&nbs
p; I walked through life with tunnel vision, never really experiencing anything around me.
And then you came along. I thought Rory was the one who breathed color into my life, but boy, was I fucking wrong. You’ve made me see colors I never thought existed.
You make me laugh.
You make me smile.
You make the world around me come alive with a small kiss from your beautiful mouth.
You brought me back to life after I spent years walking a desperate and lonely path.
I love you.
Your man,
Colby
“Mascara, that’s it?” Samantha asks, seeming more surprised than I expected.
I nod. “That’s it. Only mascara.”
“Four weeks in therapy and my girl is only wearing mascara compared to the full face you wore on your first visit. I don’t think I could be more proud. How do you feel?”
“A little self-conscious, but also free. It was nice not having to do the whole routine today. But I also feel like I might look silly wearing only mascara.”
Samantha studies me, her eyes wandering over my face and then my body, taking in my simple leggings and sweater. “You look comfortable in your skin. That’s what you look like to me. Like someone who couldn’t care less about what others think.”
“But I do still care.”
“And it will take a while for that feeling to die down, so give it time and be patient. But know you took a huge step today, and I’m proud of you. Not that you need the reassurance from me, but you are beautiful, Ryan. I need you to be able to see the same person I see, though, and that’s on you.”
Standing, Samantha goes to her desk where she pulls out a handheld mirror from the bottom drawer and hands it to me. She sits next to me on the couch and forces me to look at my reflection.
“Tell me three things you find beautiful on your face.”
Ugh, I hate exercises like this, but knowing Samantha isn’t going to let me off the hook, I sigh and say, “Uh, eyes, lips, freckles. There you go.”