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What I hate most about spring is how the sun comes up earlier and shines through the damn window, waking me up much earlier than I want to be. I could swear Quinn comes in here before she leaves for work and opens the curtain on purpose so I can’t sleep the day away.

I sit up in bed and look around my room. While it’s bathed in sunlight, nothing about it is bright or cheery. Dirty dishes litter the nightstand. Empty water bottles and soda cans spill out of the garbage can. The mountain of dirty sweat pants and t-shirts in the corner is almost as tall as I am, and I’m pretty sure there’s a funky smell coming from my bed sheets.

I don’t remember the last time the room was cleaned. Quinn cleaned it regularly in the beginning, but she hasn’t been in here as much since my cast was removed and I was downgraded from the immobilizer to a smaller stabilizing brace. That was last week. I’ve let my room become a complete shithole in seven short days. I guess it’s time to pull my head out of my ass if this is the first time it’s crossed my mind to clean up after myself.

It takes close to two hours to get my room into a state of cleanliness, but I get it done. Changing the sheets is the hardest part. Even though I can move my arm now, it’s still weak and kind of useless, so tucking the sheets under the mattress isn’t a walk in the park, but they get changed, the nightstand is cleared, and the garbage is taken out to the kitchen. The mountain of laundry has even been reduced to one small load. Surprisingly, I feel lighter somehow—gross and sweaty as well, but definitely lighter.

When I head to the bathroom, I look in the mirror, taking stock of the person staring back at me. I don’t recognize her anymore. Her face seems hollow. Large purple bags have formed under her eyes, eyes that used to shine brilliantly. Now they just look jaded. They match the frumpy bun sitting on top of her head. Everything about her screams angry hermit.

I leave my bathroom for Quinn’s to grab her expensive shampoo and conditioner and her girly coconut lime body wash. Maybe using some high-end bath shit will help me feel a little bit better. I’d love a long soak in a bubble bath, and I’m sure that would help me pull myself out of this funk, but I still can’t pull myself out of the tub alone, so a shower will have to do for now.

I turn on the shower and slip out of the nasty funk-infused sweats I’m wearing before stepping into the shower and letting the warm water run over me. I try to clear my mind and let all the dumb emotional shit wash away, just as Dr. Paterson suggested. None of the little stupid grudges, assumptions, and miscommunications matter anymore. I can forgive Jason. I can even let go of the resentment I hold toward my mother. I may never live up to her expectations, but I don’t have to. I just have to live up to mine.

I smile to myself as I lather Quinn’s shampoo into my hair, realizing it’s okay to be done with everyone else and just live for me. I have a great best friend who has stood by me through the worst of the worst. She’s the only person whose opinion I should ever let matter to me.

When I emerge from shower, I feel like a new person. I even consider blow drying my hair before I remind myself to take baby steps. I catch the time out of the corner of my eye on the wall clock and realize I only have 20 minutes until Tanner gets here to take me to physical therapy. I seriously cannot wait until I can drive a car again. I’d be happier taking the bus than riding with him, but with Quinn and Tanner plotting against me together, I don’t stand a chance of getting out the door alone. But hey, at least I look halfway human now.

Typically, I'd rather do anything other than go see Dr. Paterson, but as I head into today's appointment, I realize this is the first time I'm not dreading it, which surprises me considering how she laid into me during our last session. There must be a bit of truth to the things Dr. Paterson has been trying to drill into me, and I'm finally seeing some sense in them. I've been hanging on to so much anger, and it's exhausting being angry all the time. I wouldn't say things are suddenly all rainbows and sunshine, but it feels as though some of the darkness and gloom hanging over me has lifted.

I'll never be over Daniel’s death, but I've realized I've been stuck on pause, refusing to push past the moment I found out he’d died. I've been keeping myself trapped, clinging to the hurt and despair. It's all I have left of him, and I haven’t been ready to let go. Yet despite my protests, the earth has kept spinning and the world has kept moving forward, and it’s demanding me to move with it—or at least shower on a regular basis. It's excruciating to think of living my life without Daniel in it, but what Dr. Paterson has me considering is that maybe I don't have to let him go completely. Maybe I just have to find a way to carry him with me. 

“I’m very happy to see you here today, Ashley,” Dr. Paterson says as I enter her office.

I’m so busy taking in her office properly for the first time that I don’t say anything back. I don’t know how she spends all day here. It’s like a sterile glass box. One wall is floor-to-ceiling windows. The other three walls are stark white, and all the furniture is black, the tables glass. It’s hard to believe I’ve never noticed before, but I’ve always been so focused on the clock, waiting to make my escape, that I just haven’t.

“I’m very proud of your breakthrough. Keeping today’s appointment tells me that you’re embracing moving forward,” she says with a sincere smile.

“Thanks?” I say, my tone rising. It feels odd to receive praise for coming to a shrink

“If we can approach every session from here on out with an open mind and the same honesty you gave me last week, you’ll start to see an improvement in yourself. I promise. You’ll also see a big difference in the way that you feel about life if you actively try to pull yourself out of your self-imposed reclusion.”

I nod.

She clicks her pen closed and lays it down on her pad before bringing her eyes up to meet mine. “I like the new haircut. Want to tell me what prompted it?” Dr. Paterson asks.

I’d decided to go for a new look last week after cleaning my room and taking a shower had made me feel better. When I told Quinn, she’d suggested that it might be fun to play around with my appearance and reinvent myself, so we’d gone to the salon. Quinn suggested a color change but I love my hair color, so I decided on a more extreme cut, from straight and super long to a medium-length with angles and layers—even a side bang. After leaving the salon I felt even better, fresher, than I had after my cleaning spree. All of the focus on my makeover had directed my attention away from the pain in my body and heart, making it slightly more bearable.

“Thanks. I decided to try out your advice about pulling myself out of hiding and getting back into the swing of things,” I admit.

“I’m glad. How did you accomplish that?” She asks, peering over the top of her black box-style frame glasses.

“Well, first I cleaned my room,” I say, laughing.

She nods. “That’s a good place to start. Anything else?”

“I took a shower, decided to care a little more about my appearance. I also made some strides in physical therapy this week. I can balance on my bad leg for twenty seconds now. I did it ten times before my leg started hurting pretty badly.” I smile, remembering how proud of myself I’d felt, but I’d regretted pushing myself so hard later when my leg was throbbing in uncontrollable pain.

“That’s very good, Ashley. You should be proud of any accomplishments, no matter the size. Every step, even a small one is progress,” Dr. Paterson says, writing more notes on her pad.

We spend the next God knows how long talking about how my progress in physical therapy makes me feel. I don’t really know what the point is though. How am I supposed to feel about having to learn to walk again? How I am supposed to feel about the fact that I can’t raise my arm up high enough to take off my shirt without difficulty? All the physical therapy does is cause me more pain. I nod when I’m supposed to and give the answers I think she wants to hear, but inside, I’m back to staring at the clock again.

Dr. Patterson must notice that I’ve checked out because she surprises me with a topic change, and I miss the question.

“Huh?” I ask, having no idea what she’s just said.

“I asked if you’ve put any effort into letting go of some of the stress and tension you’ve been carrying around by holding on to all those meaningless little things.” Her eyes meet mine.

I nod, and we delve into my progress on releasing some of my past grudges, particularly in regard to Jason and my parents.

Dr. Paterson spends the rest of our session offering different methods for finding closure for unimportant things from the past. She says that a good way to deal with my anger is to channel it into an activity. “Have you written anything lately, Ashley? Writing can be a great form of therapy.”

“For the paper? No, they told me to take my time coming back. It’s not like I could go check out any of the places lined up for features. To be honest, I haven’t thought too much about work at all. Quinn’s parents have been covering my half of the rent for our condo since the accident, so I haven’t had to worry about that, and Quinn has been taking care of all of my bills. I also had a good a chunk of change saved up before the accident, and I’ve been getting disability supplements as well. There’s also the two huge checks from the accident.”

“Well, maybe those are two steps you can take to reclaim some sense of independence in your life. You could start writing again, even if just for pleasure, or you could pick up a journal and just write your feelings down, work through them on paper. You could also take back the reins on your finances.” The way she says those words, with such positivity in her voice, makes me feel as though she finally has faith in me.

I don’t know why but her faith makes me want to follow through.

“Both of those are very easy things to do,” I say.

She smiles. “The road to recovery isn’t always grueling.”

“That journal will probably be filled with nothing but my hatred for Tanner,” I point out.

“That’s not the point of the exercise, Ashley. It’s not another way for you to hang on to your anger. We’re trying to move forward, remember?” she says, shaking her head.

“I’ll always hate him. No amount of moving forward will change that,” I say, gritting my teeth. My suppressed rage pushes itself to the front of my mind, and I’m suddenly pissed at myself for letting thoughts of Tanner bring me back down, but it’s so hard to ignore him when he consumes so much of my life even though I don’t want him to.

“Let’s save this topic for another time. Our hour is coming to a close.”

I give her a slight nod before standing and making my way out of her office toward the elevator.

My anger is still swirling around in my head when the elevator arrives and the doors open.

“Hello, Ashley.”

I look up to find Jason standing inside all by himself.

“Hi, Jason. How are you?” I ask, attempting politeness.

The shock on his face tells me that he hadn’t been expecting a friendly tone.

No time like the present to start letting go in the real world, not just in my mind.

Chapter 27

Tanner

The fucking roadwork has made me ten minutes late, and I hope that Ashley isn’t stupid enough to take a cab home instead of waiting for me. I know she’d never call to check in with me. If Quinn hadn’t forced her to choose between me and her parents, she would’ve never allowed me anywhere near her.

I pull up to the building where Ashley’s therapist is and turn into the parking garage. Luckily, there’s a spot open right by the elevator.

At least she won’t have to walk far to get to the car. She may not have to use the crutch anymore, but she still has a heavy limp.

After parking the car, I rush into the building and board the parking garage elevator. I hurry through the doors toward the lobby as soon as they open again and round the corner, heading toward the main elevators.

Just in front of them stands Ashley, having what appears to be a very intimate conversation with Jason, who’s standing far too close to her for comfort. I don’t want that fucking asshole anywhere near her. The whole situation makes my hackles rise. One of his hands rests on Ashley’s forearm as she smiles at him. Fucking smiles! At him! I’d give anything to have her smile at me again, and there she is, smiling at that shithead.

I slowly step a little closer, trying catch what they’re saying. My stomach drops as soon as I’m in earshot.