Page 87 of Healed Heart

No, no, no.

I’mnotgoing to start doubting myself.Trauma does strange things to people, but I got through it.Just because I’m reliving it now, with the questions surrounding Lindsay’s death and the hope of the surgery that might save my career, doesn’t mean I’m losing my grip on reality.

That’s something I’ve always had.Sometimes it seemed like a curse, especially when I was longing to escape the grief of losing Julia after the accident, and then Lindsay.

But right now it feels like a lifeline.My grip on reality.

And Angie.

I’m going to go back to her place.I hate to wake her at this hour, but I need her.

I need her warmth, her steady presence, the way she looks at me like I’m not broken, like I’m still whole, even when I don’t feel it.I need her touch to remind me that I exist outside my own mind, outside the past clawing its way back into my present.

The questions about Lindsay’s death press in, whispering doubts I refuse to entertain.The weight of the surgery—of the hope it represents, the fear that it could all be for nothing—sits heavy on my chest.It’s too much to carry alone.

I shouldn’t need Angie like this.Shouldn’t crave the way she anchors me, the way she steadies the storm.

But I do.

And right now, that need is stronger than my pride.

So I’m going back to her.Even if it means waking her in the dead of night.

Even if it means admitting, for the first time, that I don’t want to be alone.

I get back into my car, my hands shaking as I turn the keys in the ignition.

The drive is short, but it feels like a lifetime.Finally, I reach our neighborhood, press my remote to open the cast-iron gate, and drive through.

Her house is dark except for the faint glow of a lamp in the front window.

I kill the engine and sit there for a moment, gripping the wheel, my pulse hammering.I could leave.I could go home, drown in my own thoughts like I always do, pretend I don’t need her.

But I do.

I step out, the night air thick and chilled with the forecast of more snow.I walk carefully on the slick pavement.The weight of everything presses harder with each step toward her door.The questions.The past.The surgery that might fix me or ruin me completely.

And then there’s Angie.The only thing in my life that feels solid, real.

I raise my fist to knock—hesitate.

Then, before I can second-guess myself, I let my knuckles meet the wood.

Once.Twice.

Soft enough not to startle her.Loud enough that she’ll hear me.

And now, I wait.

ChapterThirty-Five

Angie

Tillie wakes me with a sharp yap.

My eyes pop open.

“What is it, baby girl?”I ask.