Page 20 of True Colors

For a while, I couldn’t talk.

For months and months, I couldn’t make a sound.

And then, slowly, I trained my vocal cords.

Doctors call it PTSD. A trauma response. Whatever DSM-5 label fits best on a chart.

I call it a broken heart, a shaken brain, a soul that took a hit it didn’t know how to absorb.

Some people wonder why I can’t just get over it, why I didn’t grow out of the stutter. They don’t understand that trauma doesn’t stay neatly in the past. It settles into the body. It changes how you breathe, how you speak, how quickly fear rises before thought can intervene.

If I’d been in an accident and lost the use of my hands or my legs, everyone would recognize the injury. But because mine lives inside—because it shows up in my speech—people assume it’s a flaw of character.

That I’m broken. Or weak. Or stupid. Or fragile.

They never think that maybe I’m still here because my brain found a way to protect me.

I shove the old thoughts aside—the sour ones, the self-pitying ones—and force them back into whatever dark corner they crawled out of when I stop in front of my apartment. A converted Victorian with turquoise trim, crooked front steps, and a porch swing that squeaks whenever the wind hits it just wrong.

I own this place with my best friend.

Own it.

Two kids who grew up in state homes, bounced around like afterthoughts, now share a mortgage and a front door no one can kick us out of.

It still feels unreal some days.

We bought our home from an aging hippie who loved the building more than he loved money. He sold it at a below-market price because he wanted good souls to live in his old home.

Lucky us!

I haul my bike up the stairs and lock it to the porch railing. Then, I push open the front door and walk in.

Warmth hits me first. Then the smell. Something rich and savory—stew.

Score! Finn cooked, which means no takeout.

In our home, he’s the designated chef because he actually knows what he’s doing, while I’m a culinary disaster.

When I say, “I made dinner,” what I really mean is: “I boiled noodles and dumped jar sauce on them, so please lower your expectations accordingly.”

He’s home nights this week, and that’s really nice because when he’s on the night shift at the firehouse, I barely see him and have to eat said boiled noodles.

“Annie?” a voice calls from the kitchen.

“Yeah,” I answer—no stutter, no tightness, just me as I enter the kitchen plus dining area.

Finnegan “Finn” O’Connell sticks his head out from around the fridge, a beer in one hand, his shirt half-unbuttoned, like he forgot to finish dressing.

His hair is messy, and his face always looks smug.

His aura screams, I am trouble wrapped in flannel.

He is.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

I quirk an eyebrow. “How do you know something is wrong?”