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“Uh, yeah. It was uhm, good.” Sounding like a robot won’t help anything, but it’s all I got before I need to flee again. “I’ll just put this in my room then come down.” I lift my backpack jerkily, then I’m off again.

I don’t linger in my new bedroom, but instead, I force myself to just dump the backpack on the bench at the foot of the bed and then walk downstairs at a slower pace. But it’s normal, not too hurried like before, and definitely not slow like I’m walking to my death.

“In the living room.” I hear Tucker’s slightly raised voice when my foot touches the landing.

I find him standing in front of the coffee table and holding a water bottle so hard I’m afraid it’s going to disintegrate. I definitely don’t notice how his bicep ripples with strength—nope.

“I got you a water.” He sounds as stilted as I did. “Or are you hungry? I’m sure there’s still leftovers from the barbeque we had on Saturday.”

“Thanks,” I murmur, walking over and reaching for the bottle. He thrusts it towards me so fast and unexpectedly that our hands bump, and the tiny electric zap the contact produces is enough to have me jump on my feet.

I snatch the bottle and open it, take two huge sips, and it does help calm me down considerably.

“Sunny, I want to apologize again for how insensitive I was on Friday. I want you to know that I don’t ever dismiss victims of abuse, never⁠—”

“Stop,” I demand, and somehow the desperation to erase that guilty look from his face is enough to have me acting like myself again. “I know, Tucker,” I say with feeling. “You don’t have to apologize for dealing with your father’s fucking murderer.” That maybe comes out harsher than I intended, but then I try to make it better . . . “It’s not your fault that your reality might’ve triggered me into needing an emergency therapy session.”

And I only make it worse.

“What?” He looks so genuinely horrified.

“It’s not your fault,” I repeat, snapping a little. “This is just how life goes on after . . . after.”

I can tell he wants to protest, maybe flagellate himself some more, but his mouth just closes and opens, closes and opens.

I take a deep breath and try to speak normally.

“Look, I have to deal with reality. I have to be the one to work through my anxiety and keep moving forward. Yes, it sucks, but that’s literally life. Now that I know you might bring stuff up about abuse, it won’t take me by surprise. So will you please sit down and tell me how your weekend was? Then we need to talk about tomorrow’s schedule and⁠—”

“And I want to hear about your weekend too,” he interrupts forcefully, and leaves me stumped for words. It seems to hit him, how that might’ve come off, and he does a complete one-eighty. A sheepish smile quirks his left cheek even while he lowers his head in embarrassment and hunches his shoulders. “I liked talking to you on Friday.” He shrugs, and I . . .

“I liked it too.”

Stupid, malfunctioning brain-to-mouth filter.

I did like it, even with the wave of anxiety it brought on—the doubts, the shame that hit me hours after our conversation. I still liked having someone to talk to about my day at the end of the day.

It’s not something I’ve had in . . . way too long. I’m not going to be exact about it because counting sounds depressing as all hell.

“Okay then,” he says simply, and finally sits down on the same couch as Friday.

My body betrays me.

I walk around the coffee table and sit on the same couch.

Sure, on the other corner, leaving at least three feet of space between us, but I still think I shouldn’t have done that.

No turning back now, because then I would definitely look like a crazy person.

And . . . I’m not a crazy person.

That’s one of the things Dr. Natalie told me I have to keep repeating to myself. I know it logically, so feeling that way sometimes can only be illogical.

It helps.

You don’t owe anyone an explanation and you’re not a crazy person, might just be the recipe for acting normal.

I can do this.