Page 35 of Bitter Truths

Two days later, we drive through winding mountain roads until we find it, wedged between hills like it’s a secret from the rest of the world. Quaint in that suffocating small-town way where everyone knows everyone else’s business.

But it’s not Emerald Hills.

The cottage sits on an acre a short walk from the tiny downtown. Isolated.

Perfect for being left alone.

“What do you think?” Mom asks as we park.

I stare at the cottage with its white clapboard siding, green shutters, and a wraparound porch with rocking chairs that face tree-covered slopes. Cute. Peaceful. But I don’t care what it looks like. As long as it’s far, far away from them.

“It’s fine,” I say flatly, my eyes fixed on the forest.

Fine. The word I use for everything now.

The cottage is small but clean. It has two bedrooms, a basic kitchen, and a living room with windows that offer a view of the woods. After weeks of fluorescent hospital lighting, the natural light should be a welcome change. Instead, it just makes everything look too bright, too real. Too exposed.

Mom spends the next few days setting up my new life like I’m a doll she’s arranging in a dollhouse. She fills the fridge with food I won’t eat, makes a schedule that she attaches to the front with a rooster magnet, and calls to confirm appointments she’s already set up.

She opens the top drawer of the nightstand, placing something inside. “I put your bee charm in here for safekeeping,” she says softly, closing the drawer with a gentle click.

Safekeeping.

The words twist painfully inside me. What’s safe about any of this? What’s safe about being tossed aside like I’m nothing? What’s safe about running off to the mountains, abandoning everything I’ve ever fucking known?

I stare at the closed drawer. A tiny piece of gold that, for the briefest moment, meant everything to me is now just one more thing I can’t bear to look at. Just like my own face in the mirror.

“Okay,” I say, because it’s the only word I have left.

“Come on,” she says the day before she has to leave, keys jingling in her hand. “I want to show you around town.”

I don’t want to go anywhere, but arguing is fruitless with my mom. So I climb into the passenger seat and let her drive me through Hunter’s Creek’s blink-and-you-miss-it downtown area, which takes up three whole blocks.

“There’s the grocery store,” she says, pointing to a small building with peeling paint and a handwritten sign. “The owner’s name is Mrs. Feekes. Very sweet woman. She’s going to have someone bring staples by every few days until you’re ready to do it yourself. She has my number if you need anything.”

Great. A babysitter.

We drive past the post office, a diner that looks like it hasn’t been updated in the last fifty years, and a tiny library with flowers planted out front.

“And here’s where you’ll be seeing Dr. Hartwell,” Mom says, pulling up in front of a converted Victorian house with a small sign that reads Hunter’s Creek Counseling.

I stare at the building. More therapy. More digging into wounds that can’t possibly heal.

“She specializes in trauma recovery,” Mom continues. “I’ve already scheduled you for twice a week to start.”

“Okay.”

The next stop is a community center on the edge of town. An old brick building with a parking lot full of potholes.

“There’s a support group here,” Mom explains. “For omegas who’ve experienced... difficult situations. Tuesdays and Thursdays at six.”

Exactly what I don’t want to be doing… sitting in a circle and commiserating with other people like myself. Fucking kill me now.

“Do I have to?”

“Dr. Hartwell thinks it would be good for you. But we can start with just individual sessions if you’re not ready.”

I’m never going to be ready. But Mom has that look on her face… the one that says she’s trying so hard to help me fix this shell of a person I’ve become.