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They whisper and soothe me and cry with me. They put me back together, ease the ache in my chest, decrease the thundering of my heart, shift the weight off my shoulders, bear the pain I carry.

I suck in a breath and release. One by one they step back, but stay close, within arm's reach. I find their faces, their eyes, and smiles. And as if by mutual accord, we all laugh at the same time. The hurt erased by the joyful sound, my heart a thousand pounds lighter.

Chapter Thirty-Three

I’m pacingback and forth, walking what seems like miles in the same five or six feet of space, while I wait for River. I stuff my hands in my pockets, remove them, repeat. My feet itch to run and get away. I dig in my heels. Wait.

She walks down the path toward me. She waves.

I respond with stilted movements. My arm leaden. “Hey, thanks for coming.”

She hugs me. “Of course. Like I could say no after that text message. I’ve been wondering all day what this important talk is about.”

The afternoon breeze blows hair into my face, and I tug it behind my ear with a shaky hand. Distant voices float from somewhere down the path, but this part of the campus is quiet. A garden bench sits empty a few feet from where we stand, but I need distance between us and other people.

“Let’s walk.”

I step off the path and onto the grass, now more brown than green, and squishy under my feet. River walks next to me. My head down, I watch each measured step. River matches her steps to mine. I’m sure she can sense my anxiety. She has always been able to, even though I denied it each time.

This part of the campus is always quiet, but even more so this late in the season. The sky is the clear and a crisp blue that’s only present in the coldest of days. But the sun makes being outside pleasant, even if what I came here to do is anything but.

I inhale, the frigid air stings as it fills my chest. “You know how I said I was going home for Thanksgiving?”

“Yeah.” River’s tone is cautious.

“I lied.” The confession barely above a whisper.

River stops and looks at me in silence. Her expression is open and patient. I want to look away. I want to turn and run. I want to take back the words.

But I don't.

I can’t.

I face her and drop my armor. I face her and open my heart, perhaps for the first time while looking someone in the eyes.

River doesn't ask questions, she gives me time.

“I’m not going home for Christmas. I didn't go home for Thanksgiving. Or Easter. Or summer break. Or spring break. Or any other holiday for the last four years.”

Her eyes widen, her lips part. She still says nothing. I like this about her. She knows when to speak up, and she knows when to wait. Most of the time she's like a hurricane on crack, but right now she’s quiet, and the quiet gives me the courage I need to go on.

“I left my home—no, not my home—I left the house I grew up in at eighteen for my first year at Riggins. And I never went back.”

I look away from her. I knew this would be hard. Speaking up, saying the words I've taken so much care to hide, is scary. I walk again, and River falls into step next to me.

“I didn't have the life you did growing up. I didn’t meet my father until a few months ago. He's actually a nice guy.” I smile. The memory of meeting my siblings is one I’ll always treasure. “But my mom? My mom is a different story.” I look around the park again, make sure there’s no one close enough to hear us. We’re still alone.

The breeze picks up and ruffles my hair, most of the brown is faded, and it is nearly to my natural color. So much has changed. I stopped dyeing my hair almost a year ago. It might be symbolic. A rebirth of sorts.

I’m claiming myself back.

“My mother is an addict. Alcohol, drugs, whatever you can think of, she has tried.”

River reaches out and takes my hand in between hers, and we stop again.

“My mother was never a mother to me. She was negligent on her best days. But most of the time she was abusive and angry. She blamed me for ruining her life.”

River squeezes my hand. Steps closer.