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Sex was… God, how many of my fucked-up emotions were tied to that act. At seventeen, it was a resounding fuck you to the expectations of my father. Be pure. Save yourself. I’ll decide who the man worthy of your innocence is. That was a hard no thank you from me.

I’d seen the way he wielded that power with my mother before she finally got free of him. If only she’d been allowed to take me when she left. She’d warned me not to give up control, not to yield power and let anyone else make decisions for me like that. It was with her encouragement that Winnie and I decided to steal out of town the minute we were done with high school. A pipe dream that became more of a pipe bomb is what happened.

But at least I’d taken control of my own future and fucked the first boy who’d shown interest. Took that little cherry and stomped all over it—me, not him. He was a sweet thing, fumbling and timid, and totally unsure of what to do. We both were, but it was a means to an end. And that end? Yeah, my father blew his lid. Told me I was ruined, tainted. Fucking worthless.

Who knows, maybe the very act I thought gave me power was the one that took it all away. My father had me kidnapped. My father had me thrown in that dark and terrifying place. I’ll never know if he sanctioned the abuse, the torture, the hell I endured, but I do know that he didn’t lift a finger to help me.

It would have been wrong to celebrate a person’s death. I was already in a psych ward when it happened—I didn’t need to give anyone a reason to keep me there indefinitely—but I did not waste a single tear on the man who thought so little of me. When the doctor told me my father’d been found dead in his office, a pot of bee balms just outside the window and a hummingbird sipping at the nectar next to it, I’d simply nodded. I was broken after all. The expected reaction from me was complete and total breakdown… or nothing at all.

I chose nothingness. I put up the walls I needed to protect me. I spent a ridiculous amount of time chasing the illusion of dreams. I didn’t know it was Teague I was chasing—his voice, his touch, the gentle care he took in holding me safe against his chest. Those walls were keeping the shit reality away from my perceived dreams.

But it turns out, Teague is real. His heart, his touch, that melodic voice, soft and lilting, murmuring against my skin and wrapping me in safety. All very real.

And very much not here right now.

Missing him when I thought he was nothing more than the figment of my broken mind was hard. It hurt.

Missing him now is so much worse, even if it’s only been a handful of hours.

I open the phone he left with me and tap into the location app. I can see his dot, blinking strong and sure, but I don’t have a clue where he is. It’s been so long since I was free to roam around town. And I have no idea where Christophe’s estate is in comparison to the places I do know. Or whether that blinking orange light is there.

I open the messaging app and tap on Winnie’s contact.

Me: Hey. It’s Tru.

Minutes pass and no response comes. I switch back to the tracking app and watch that little light blink—slow and steady. Its persistence bolsters me, gives me hope, a connection that I didn’t think possible.

The phone buzzes, startling me from this newfound calm that is only attributable to Teague.

Winnie: TRU! holy shit, sweetie, are you ok?

Me: I am. How are you?

Even in text, my conversation is stilted. At least my fingers don’t stutter.

Winnie: good. so good. except…

Me: ?

Winnie: nothing. i’m good. where are you?

Me: No. Finish that. Except what? You can tell me if you’re not really okay. If you’re scared, maybe Teague can bring you here. It’s safe…but I don’t know exactly where here is.

Winnie: so… he’s left? what time? do you think he’ll get here soon?

I tilt the screen and reread her last message, unease roiling in my belly.

Me: He left hours ago. He’s not there?

Dots dance and tease, stopping then starting up again. Each cycle ramping up my fear. But what could happen to Teague? It’s not like he’s some frail young girl who assholes could get a jump on and throw in the trunk of their car, right?

Me: Winn?

Winnie: he’s not here, not answering his phone. Christophe is pissed. i’m actually glad you’re not here…tensions are high.

Always worried about me, so in tune with my feelings. Fear and panic have ruled the past couple of years, and Winnie has navigated that minefield every step of the way. I appreciate her concern, but maybe this is a good time for those feelings to bloom.

Me: What do you mean he’s not there? Where else would he be? His light is blinking so nothing is wrong, right?