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“Ugh,” I mutter again, cleaning the bowl and setting it on a towel on the counter to dry. The bread is in the oven, the dishes are done, I’ve done my three miles on the treadmill, lifted tiny dumbbells—at least compared to the gargantuan ones that Hudson uses—in a series of exercises that my physical therapist recommended, and tried out a new recipe I found on Pinterest.

Such a full day.

Such a full life.

Ugh.

I clamp my teeth together so tightly a bolt of pain shoots through my jaw, and stand there, just breathing, for long minutes?—

For so long, in fact, that the timer for the banana bread goes.

I shake myself, pull out the loaves and leave them to cool then turn off the oven and do the only thing I can do.

Escape.

To the only place I can escape.

Hudson’s back yard.

The sun is shining and it’s a beautiful, sunshiney California day. Blue skies, not a cloud in sight. The breeze ruffles my hair but doesn’t chill—chilly isn’t something SoCal is known for. Hell, we get a quarter of an inch of rain and suddenly, it’s like people’s cars don’t work any longer.

Commutes get longer.

Traffic gets…traffickier.

Road rage gets…well, ragier.

But right now, I wish it was raining. Downpouring. Hailing. Dumping unusual and record-breaking snow on me. Anything except for the bright and cheerful sunshine that is the antithesis of my dour mood.

Spoiler alert: I don’t get my wish.

The sun slowly travels across the sky, the day warms even more, and…my mood doesn’t change.

I should have looked for the picture before I left Dylan’s and my house.

I should have.

And now not only am I anchorless, without a path forward, I’m also stuck in this holding pattern, imagining the silver frame dented and dirtied, the glass cracked, small shards escaping and tumbling to the floor, the picture of my dad and I scratched, damaged, or worse…

Torn into a million pieces.

I know I’m being ridiculous. It’s just a picture and I have no control over its fate, over what Dylan has decided to do to it. Further that, the image is mine, committed to memory, held deep in my heart.

He can destroy it and I’d still have the memory. Because he can take a lot of things from me—has taken almost everything—but I’m still here.

Still breathing.

Still living?—

“Ugh,” I mutter again.

Because is that what this is?

Locked in a tower, hiding from the world, from Dylan, from the press. Sitting here and doing nothing while other people move heaven and earth for me.

Ugh!

I pace through the back yard, around the pool, resisting the urge to kick at one of the loungers when my angry, unaware strides bring me in contact with it. But that will only hurt my foot.