“Which one is this?” she asked, knowing they were from Rossy’s tea collection.
“Soothing lemon and raspberry.”
She curled her fingers around the mug, holding it close as she sat up. “I thought you were from Astoria.”
“No. I’m from Portland.”
My best friend nodded, eyes on the steam rising from her tea. Swallowing, I leaned back in the chair and brought my foot to rest on the edge of the seat, my leg curled. “I was looking for a new home when I rolled into town, but for some reason, I didn’t think Astoria was that place. It was supposed to be the starting point of my drive down the coast.”
“You were running, weren’t you?”
I traced the curve of the mug handle. “I was.” I blinked away the memory and lifted my head, finding her staring at me, head tilted to the side, eyes soft. “I’m sorry.”
Her brow furrowed. “For what?”
“Hurting you.”
She jerked. “You didn’t—”
“I heard it in your voice when you told Hayes ‘fuck you.’” I cut her off. “Which, by the way, kudos to you for doing that. He can be intense.”
“You threatened to kill him the moment you laid eyes on him,” she deadpanned.
I bit my lip. “Well, yeah. You were in danger.”
“Yes,” she confirmed. “I was, and you were there for me.”
I winced and stared into my mug, watching the color of the tea seep into the hot water, a warm brown with a hint of red. It curled and swirled, bleeding into the clear, erasing its purity to add something more—something meaningful.
“Like I said, staying in Astoria was never the plan. I got hired at Rossy’s because I was the only one in town who could figure out how to work the damn espresso machine,” I explained as she stirred her tea. “Then, after six months, I’d paid off the repairs for my car and was ready to leave. I was standing on the sidewalk in front of the bookstore in the middle of July, ready to say goodbye.” Tears filled my eyes then, hot and overwhelming, a lump forming in my throat. “But Rossy was standing there in his fucking brown pants, cream shirt, and that fucking tweed vest.He was uncomfortable, I could tell. I needed to leave, and he was just standing there, fidgeting with his fucking glasses, Cardinal. Then he said—” I adjusted my voice, mimicking his English accent. “Well, uh, yes, if—if you’re ever in town again, please feel free to stop by. There will always be a cuppa waiting for you here, Margo.”
She nodded, smiling as she tried not to cry.
“And I couldn’t leave,” I rasped. “I couldn’t leave the family I’d found. Then you showed up a few years later and everything was fine. Everything was so fucking perfect and fine. We were all happy and I was in school. I was getting my shit together, Carrie.” A tear hit her cheek, but I kept going. “I’ve never once in my twenty-nine years of life had my shit together because I’ve been dealt some bad cards, and in order to protect myself, I began living a lie. No one knew about those cards and no one was ever going to know about them, how fucking horrible they were and how deeply they cut me. I should have been destroyed, Cardinal. I shouldn’t have survived, but for some reason Idid.I vowed that when I found a new life, no one in it would have the displeasure of seeing my scars.”
She was out of her chair then, the legs of it scraping my floor as she rounded the table. Her arms were around me, tight, warm, and accepting. I crumpled, melting into her embrace as a shattered sob left me, the pain my soul had been holding on to for years, finally free. I slid out of my chair, sobbing violently into her shoulder, and she followed me, dropping to her knees.
“And what about the bruise on your pretty face, sweet friend?” she croaked. “Were you trying to hide that from me too?”
I nodded against her, soaking her sweatshirt as I sobbed into the soft fabric. Even her strawberry scent couldn’t distract from the pain, mine and hers. Both existed because of me. That’s who I was: the creator of pain.
The avoidant.
The failure.
The mess.
“Margo, I’m here,” she pressed through her cracking vocal cords. “I’m right here. Talk to me. Please. Let me help you untangle the dark and twisty things.”
“I can’t.”
“I believe you can,” she rasped, stroking the back of my head.
The touch, loving and reassuring, sent me into a headfirst dive into the dark and twisted parts of my soul, the part of me I kept locked tight behind a steel door, concealed by lies.
Through my tears, I told her everything.
I showed her all my scars.