What to Read After FSOG: The Gemstone Collection (WTRAFSOG Book 4)

by Selena Kitt

  ‘I bet that was really nice. All that sunshine and lovely scenery.’

  ‘And surfing.’

  ‘And koalas’

  ‘And didgeridoos.’ I grin.

  For some reason, she finds that funny, and her velvety laugh washes over me. I want to hear more of it. Want to make her laugh and smile more. That smile, when it happens, is so startling I could lose myself in it forever.

  ‘Are you from Cambridge?’ she asks.

  ‘No. London, originally. After I graduated, I got a volunteer counselling job here in Cambridge and then some part time work.’ I don’t want to blow this, so I say, ‘I’ve got an interview for a full time counselling job in a few weeks. How about I just help you out until I find out what happens with that?’

  ‘Didn’t you say you teach women’s self-defence, too?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s volunteer work. I do one class in the evenings, and one on a Sunday, so it won’t interfere with this.’ I don’t tell her it’s part of my parole license, and I have to do a certain amount of volunteer work. But even if it wasn’t a requirement, I’d still be doing it. Everything I learnt as an MMA fighter can help these women. ‘But Saturday mornings I do youth counselling for young offenders. And the grief counselling I do is one evening a week and one Tuesday morning, so that shouldn’t interfere too much.’

  ‘Can…can anyone come along to the self-defence classes?’

  I nod and smile. ‘As long as you’re a woman.’ Which sounds really creepy under the circumstances, so I add, ‘You know, seeing as it’s a class for women.’

  ‘OK.’ Her voice is so soft, I’m not sure she’s actually spoken.

  ‘OK?’

  ‘Yes. Lisa’s leaving for maternity leave. Can you come in tomorrow at eight, and we can show you the ropes before she goes?’

  I light up inside. It’s only a job in a coffee shop, but it’s as if I’ve just landed the best job in the world.

  Chapter Eleven

  Grace

  The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. I can’t take them back now, and besides, it would’ve looked really rude and ungrateful not to give him the job after all he’s done for me today. It’s only for a few weeks.

  But can I do this? Can I work with a man? He’s easy to talk to, and the more I learn about him, the more I believe he must be a good guy. You wouldn’t volunteer to teach self-defence or become a counsellor otherwise, would you?

  It didn’t escape my attention that he didn’t ask questions about the panic attack, and he didn’t crowd me, which gives me a good feeling. A safe feeling. Maybe I can do this.

  It’s been quiet in the shop today, so I pack up quite a few leftovers and take them to the homeless shelter. As I drive, I think about Ben and wonder whether he can help me.

  When I get back home, I heat up a can of chicken soup from the cupboard and eat it at the kitchen table. I really should go food shopping, but I don’t like crowds anymore. He could be in amongst them, and I’d never know until it’s too late. Instead of going to the big supermarket, I usually go to the small shop at the end of the road, but the choice is limited. Anyway, it’s not as if I have an appetite anymore, so it doesn’t really matter.

  It’s not until I’m in the bath that I realize I’ve only checked the locks five times instead of ten, and it’s because of Ben. My mind can’t stop wandering to him.

  I leap out, sloshing water all over the floor, and quickly dry myself. Wrapped in a towel, I go through the ritual. Top deadbolt. Yale Lock. Chain. Bottom deadbolt.

  By the time I finish, my heart’s racing again and the familiar panic returns. My fingers are numb, and I can’t be sure I’ve done it right so I start again.

  And again.

  By the time I’m on the ninth go, I’m so mentally and physically tired that I can’t go on, so I get the knife from the kitchen, sit in front of the door, shivering, and gasp for more breath than I can take in.

  A voice in my head screams, Get some help!

  My chest is on fire, hurting so much I think I’m going to die from lack of oxygen. And maybe that’s a good thing. It would solve a lot.

  Then another voice pops into my head. This time it’s Ben’s and it’s echoing loud and clear. He’s repeating what he told me today. It’s OK. Just breathe slowly. In, out. In, out.

  My hands drop to my lap, and I look at the ring on my right hand. The simple silver band with a turquoise stone that Mum left me. I stare at it through watery eyes, trying to ground myself, as he suggested, and use all my energy to concentrate on breathing in and out. In. Out.

  ‘You’re OK. You’re OK. You’re OK,’ I whisper over and over to myself until the panic subsides.

  The feeling comes back into my hands and feet, and my heart’s no longer pounding like a booming bass drum.

  I close my eyes and carry on. When I open them again and look at the clock in the hall, five minutes have gone by.

  Slowly, I get to my feet. I take the knife with me to bed, tucking it underneath my pillow, and lie down. As I close my eyes, I concentrate on breathing again until I fall asleep.

  My alarm wakes me at five a.m. It takes me a few minutes to remember where I am because it’s unfamiliar. Usually, I’m waking up screaming, crying, or heaving. But last night I slept better than I have for a long time, and I didn’t have the nightmare. At least I don’t think I did. It must’ve been the deep breathing. And probably the fact I’m so exhausted, my body is craving a night of uninterrupted rest.

  I get dressed and do my makeup. Once the mask is in place, I go down to the coffee shop and start baking. As I lose myself in flour, sugar, and chocolate, an idea forms in my head.

  I’m going to ask Ben to help me get through this.

  I want my life back again.

  Chapter Twelve

  Ben

  I shower and shave and think about Grace. It must’ve taken a lot of courage to offer me the job, but I already know she’s stronger than she seems; she just doesn’t realize it yet.

  The bruises on my face don’t look good, but I can’t do much about that until they fade. I just hope they don’t put any customers off. I don’t want to give her any excuse to fire me before I’ve even started.

  I study my sparse wardrobe. I don’t have a uniform like Grace does, but Lisa’s too pregnant to wear one anyway, and she was just in black leggings and a black smock top. Obviously, the leggings and smock top are a no go, so I pull out a plain black shirt and black jeans.

  I down a cup of Earl Grey tea and eat a couple of slices of toast. It’s six-thirty, and I’ve been up since five. I’m used to getting up early anyway, but nothing would stop me being late for my first day at the shop.

  The insurance company are messing me around about my car. Not that it was exactly worth much. I hardly earn enough to pay for the petrol and my flat, so I can’t afford to get another one. For now, I’ll just have to walk everywhere, which doesn’t bother me. When you’ve been cooped up for so long inside, walking is good.

  I arrive at the shop at quarter to eight and peer in the door. I can’t see anyone, so I knock.

  A few seconds later, Grace comes out of the kitchen, her eyebrows raised with a smile as she unlocks the door. Her smile lights up her face, and it’s literally breathtaking.

  ‘Hi.’ I can’t help smiling back at her. She has that effect on me.

  ‘Hi,’ she says. She’s got a dusting of flour across her cheek, and the urge to reach out and wipe it off is strong.

  ‘You’ve got some flour on your cheek.’

  She brushes it off with the back of her hand and laughs. ‘Occupational hazard. Come in.’

  I follow her inside. ‘I hope this is OK to wear?’ I look down at my clothes.

  Her gaze runs up and down the length of me, and something unfamiliar stirs in my belly. Something I haven’t felt in a long, long time.

  ‘Yep, that’s fine.’ She looks away quickly. ‘So, I’ll show you how the coffee machines and stuff work, OK?’ She walks beh
ind the counter.

  I stand at the edge. I don’t want to get too close to her again in case she has a panic attack, but I really can’t see what I’m doing from here. I catch her vanilla scent, and it smells like a gorgeous, fresh summer day.

  ‘Can you see from there?’ she says, her voice wavering. She’s unsure about me, and that’s understandable.

  ‘Not really.’

  She steps back towards the machine at the end wall and allows me to get closer, but I don’t overstep the mark and keep a distance of about a metre, which I hope is good enough for her.

  ‘That’s better,’ I say.

  She pours milk into a stainless steel jug and lifts it up to a metal wand on one of the machines. When she presses a button, the wand hisses in the milk, frothing it up. She fills a mug with a shot of coffee and tops it off with the foamy milk before sprinkling it with chocolate.

  ‘OK, so that’s a cappuccino. Let me show you how to do a latte.’

  I ask a few questions as I watch her demonstrate what to do, but it seems easy to learn. I’m just enjoying being around her.

  The door opens, and we glance over at Lisa coming in.

  ‘You didn’t lock the door?’ Lisa says. ‘Are we open already? I’m not late, am I?’

  Grace blushes. I know she didn’t lock it because she’s alone with me. It’s her only escape route, and she doesn’t want to delay getting out by having to unlock it. From what I’ve seen, she hasn’t told Lisa about what’s happened to her, and Grace skilfully avoids her question. ‘No, you’re not late.’

  ‘I was early,’ I say, so Grace doesn’t have to explain.

  ‘Well, you’re keen!’ Lisa laughs at me. ‘Glad to see you back.’

  ‘How did the scan go?’ Grace gives her a hug.

  She pats her belly with pride. ‘Fabulous. Great. Wonderful.’

  A timer goes off in the kitchen. ‘I’ll get it,’ Lisa says. ‘You carry on and show Ben what to do.’

  The day whizzes by in a hive of activity. The morning rush moves seamlessly into the lunchtime rush, before the student rush later in the afternoon. In between fills with pensioners, mums, and businesspeople working on their laptops.

  When we get a spare minute, Grace says to me, ‘Oh, by the way the brake lights seem to be working.’

  I frown, completely lost for a moment. ‘Brake lights?’

  ‘Yeah, you know, you said you saw them and they weren’t working.’

  ‘Oh, yeah! Yeah, the brake lights.’ I purse my lips. ‘Maybe it was an intermittent thing, then. I can check the bulbs and wiring for you, if you like.’

  ‘OK.’

  We leave Lisa in the shop and head round the building to the car park. Grace gets in the car and taps the brakes as I check them out.

  ‘No, they seem to be OK,’ I say.

  ‘Good.’ She gets out of the car. ‘That’s one less thing to worry about.’

  ‘Let me just look at the wiring. Some of it might have come loose.’ I lift up the boot and remove the plastic casing covering the lights, making a show of checking everything’s in order.

  ‘No, that all looks good.’ I slam the boot back down, and Grace locks the car.

  We head back in, and Lisa disappears for an hour on her break, but it doesn’t give me any time to chat with Grace. She offers for me to take my break at half past one but I stay, claiming it’s my first day and I’m keen to get everything right. But really, I don’t want to leave her there. It’s obvious she works too hard as it is.

  At half past five, Grace shows me how to clean the machines, and I watch over her shoulder. She’s standing closer to me than this morning, and I hope she’s grown more comfortable with me being there.

  Lisa turns the open sign to closed. ‘I can’t believe it’s my last day tomorrow.’ Her mouth turns down at the edges.

  Grace looks up at her with warmth, and I want her to look at me like that.

  ‘Me, too.’ Grace pouts, but it looks cute on her. ‘I might have a surprise for you, though.’

  ‘Ooh, goody. I love surprises!’ Lisa winks. ‘Don’t forget to lock up after me.’ She waves and shuts the door.

  ‘So, how was your first day?’ Grace packs up what’s left of the food under the counter. She smiles, but it’s forced.

  ‘Yeah, good, thanks. You’re a patient teacher.’ I take off my apron and fold it.

  ‘You were right. You are a quick learner.’

  ‘What happens to the food?’

  ‘I take it to the homeless shelter.’

  ‘I’m sure they appreciate that.’

  She shrugs as if it’s nothing. ‘Every little helps, right?’

  I lean on the counter and watch her work. Her movements are deliberate, smooth, like she’s in control. Only the tiny tremor in her fingers gives her away.

  ‘Um…’ She puts the box of food on the counter. She stares down at the floor for a second, as if trying to build up to something.

  ‘Are you OK? Did you have another panic attack?’

  She looks up. Nods.

  ‘Did you do the breathing?’

  ‘Yes. It was good. I actually had the best night’s sleep I’ve had in ages.’

  ‘Good. Glad I could help.’

  She glances around the room, her gaze stopping on the coffee machine to my right.

  ‘Do you want to talk about them?’

  She finally looks at me then. ‘How does counselling work?’ Her tone is interested but cautious.

  I think about this for a moment. ‘Counselling is a way to help someone heal by thinking and feeling differently about their situation. It’s a way to create new memories and new responses that don’t harm you anymore and make you stronger.’

  ‘And how do you think differently?’

  ‘By talking things out. By doing exercises that can help people see things in a different way. There are lots of things you can try.’

  ‘Does it always work?’

  I wish I had a simple answer, but it’s different for everyone. ‘No,’ I say, honestly. ‘It’s like anything in life. You have to want it to work, and you have to put a bit of effort in. But the first step is realizing you want or need help. Asking for help doesn’t mean you’re weak or worthless. It means you’ve got the courage to recognize you have a problem that you can’t always fix on your own. People try to run away from things without dealing with them, which leads to other problems. And you can’t run away from what’s in your own head.’ I give her what is hopefully a reassuring smile. ‘But I can promise you that if you talk, it will help. If you don’t talk, it’s like a toxic wound festering away inside you that never heals. What you keep inside continues to hurt you.’

  She chews her lower lip as though she’s weighing up my words. An internal battle of emotions rages over her face, as if she’s on the edge of a decision and doesn’t know which way to go.

  ‘Do you think you need to talk to a counsellor?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes,’ she whispers so quietly I can barely hear it. Then she looks up at me with watery green eyes. ‘Would you be able to help me, because I think I’m going mad?’

  It makes me want to slip my arms round her and hold on tight. I fight the urge by resting my hands on the counter. ‘You’re not going mad. Something traumatic happened to you, and you’re trying to deal with it. That’s why you’re having the panic attacks. It doesn’t make you mad, it makes you human.’

  She bites harder on her lip and doesn’t meet my gaze. ‘So…um…would you be my counsellor?’

  ‘It may be a conflict of interest,’ I say.

  She exhales a deep breath. She’s just taken the courage to ask for help, and she thinks I’ve turned her down. It’s like a kick in the guts to me, so I quickly add, ‘With me working here, maybe it would be a conflict of interest to act as your “counsellor”.’ I make quote marks in the air with my fingers at the word. ‘But I could help you as a friend.’

  ‘A friend?’ She blinks away the tears in her eyes and sniffs. ‘Yeah, I c
ould probably do with one of those, too.’

  I want to get her to talk. This is the first step, and I want to help her. I tell myself it’s because of my job, because of who I am now, but it’s more than that. She already feels special to me in a way I can’t understand, let alone try to describe. I already know I don’t want to be her counsellor or her friend, but for now, a friend is exactly what I’ll be.

  ‘Even if I were to do this as a friend, I’d still be bound by a code of ethics. Whatever you tell me will be completely confidential.’ I push away from the counter and sit at a table in front of it. ‘Maybe if I tell you a bit about myself and why I became a counsellor, it will make things easier for you to decide if you want to talk about things with me.’

  I hope this will give her the courage to talk and put her at ease. But it’s the first time I’ve spoken about it in years and…fuck, maybe I need a counsellor, too. No, I know I do.

  And then I tell myself this is the reason I qualified for this job. This is the reason I can help.

  Her forehead pinches with confusion.

  I inhale a long breath. ‘Just over five years ago, my sister, Mia, was raped. She didn’t report it to the police. She didn’t tell anyone at first.’

  ‘Oh, my God, I’m so sorry.’ Her hands fly to her cheeks, and her eyes widen.

  ‘Thank you. I was too busy training for MMA fights at the time to notice what was going on with her. I wasn’t at home much because I was going all over the country competing, and I was doing a plumbing apprenticeship at the time, too. I was too busy concentrating on my life to recognize hers had fallen apart.’ I pause to take a deep breath. ‘She stopped going out. She hardly spoke. She didn’t eat. She was withdrawn and depressed.’ Guilt and anger swirl around in my stomach, churning my guts like the ocean in a storm. ‘My parents thought she was on drugs. She was studying at uni, and they thought she’d fallen in with the wrong crowd. They were hard on her—having a go at her all the time, but she didn’t tell them what had happened. She…she thought it was her fault, as if it was something she’d done or said. She took the full weight of the blame and the shame, and in the end she couldn’t cope with it.’