According to Dr. Reynolds, I suffer from what’s called posttraumatic stress disorder, and I’ll likely have to deal with it for the rest of my life. Her focus was on teaching me how to understand the triggers I’ll face and how to calmly deal with them, especially in public. Which I guess I kinda failed at today. Talking about how to deal with triggers in the safety of her office is a lot different from experiencing it in real life, and now I’m completely exhausted from this day.

I open my eyes and glance over at Feather discreetly. She doesn’t seem to notice my anxiety, her attention on the road and the radio. That small bit of information about my past seems to have satisfied her, so I don’t offer any further details. We’re almost home, and I’m looking forward to being alone and forgetting about the bad parts of the day.

Feather seems to have recovered from her abuse better than I have, and I’m a bit jealous. When we first met last year, she was quiet, depressed, and withdrawn. Now she’s much happier, like a lot of weight has been lifted from her. I often wonder how she feels about me as a friend. Does she feel sorry for me? Disgusted by me? Her head is bobbing slightly to the music coming from the car stereo, oblivious to me watching her. I wish I could be as carefree as she appears to be lately.

We stop at a traffic light, and Feather picks up her phone again and types wildly on the tiny keyboard, illuminating the interior of the car. I hope she’s not telling Steve about me and the red lipstick incident.

The thundering roar of a motorcycle pulling up to a stop next to us startles me, and I peer out the window at the rider. It’s early October but, even with a chill in the air, all he’s wearing is a black shirt with the sleeves pushed up, revealing muscular, tattooed arms. A black knit hat covers his head in lieu of a helmet. Long dirty blond hair sprouts from the hem and just touches his collar. He must feel my gaze because he turns sideways toward me.

I gasp—

The lower half of his face is covered by a mask that looks like a portion of a bloody skull. His eyes are hidden behind dark glasses. He grabs the burning cigarette dangling from a hole cut in the mask and blows a puff of gray smoke in my direction before carelessly flicking the cigarette onto the street between us.

But that’s not what’s got me nearly crawling out of my seat and jumping out into the road. I sit forward slightly and lean closer to the dark-tinted window, not sure he can even see me.

“Did you see that creeper throw his cigarette at my car?” Feather shoves her phone back into the console. “I should run that asshole off the road.”

My heart gallops in my chest, and I lean even closer to the window, my breath puffing against the cold glass, my eyes riveted to his tattooed hand, wrapped around the handlebar grip.

The last time I saw that tattooed hand, it was squeezing the throat of the man who had kept me for ten years.

My eyes widen, poring over him. The way his powerful legs wrap around the rumbling motorcycle, the broadness of his shoulders, his arm muscles flexing, the colorful ink covering the exposed parts of his forearms, the stray wisps of hair blowing in the breeze. An indescribable ache sears through me, a longing like nothing I have ever felt before.

Look at me, look at me!

I want to scream it. I want him to see me. I need him to recognize me.

I’m right here!

But his gaze doesn’t linger. His head turns away, and he guns his engine.

No! He’s going to leave me again. I’m going to lose him again. There he is, just six feet away from me—the man who saved me. My beautiful, strong prince. My breath catches as he kicks the bike into gear with a scuffed black boot then speeds off down the dark road, disappearing within moments.

I wish I could have stopped him.

I wish I could thank him and tell him I’m sorry for what he went through for me.

But most of all, I want to tell him how I waited for him.

Hoped for him and dreamt of him for so long.

How I’m still waiting.

Is it possible to wish someone right out of your heart into existence?

Yes. Yes, it is.

Now we just have to find each other again.

7

Holly

“Do you know what you want?” Zac asks. I peer up at the café menu written on a huge chalkboard, as we stand in line, completely overwhelmed by all the choices. I don’t even know what half the stuff is. Like biscotti.