Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 72616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
"You helped all these people?" she whispers, her hand going to her mouth.
"Yeah,” I say, putting my hands on my hips. “I guess I did."
"You don’t see it." She turns to me. “But it all makes sense."
"What does?" I look at her confused.
"Why you couldn’t just leave me there,” she says, and I don’t want to get into this with her. I know she isn’t ready for what I have to say, and I know that she has to heal first.
"You ready to meet some of my girls?" I ask, and she just looks at me. “The girls.” I walk out and look over my shoulder to see her coming out and following me. “Usually, there is more light in here,” I say as she walks down the gray concrete. “But in the morning, I only turn on the lights that lead down the path.
"There are ten stalls in this one,” I say, pointing down the hall where five stalls are located on each side. Each stall has a cast-iron gate with the names written on the top of each door. I walk past each one. "This is Prada, Misty, Ivy, Daisy, Sugar, Holly, Sierra, Poppy, Luna, and my newest girl," I say, pointing at the last stall, “Hope."
"What exactly do you do here?" she asks.
"There are really five different types of therapy that I work with,” I say as I walk into one of the stalls, and she stays outside. "Horseback riding helps with posture and muscle tone as well as coordination." I talk to her about the different types of therapy, and she listens to every single word, walking from one stall to the next as the horses come to the door. "You can touch them if you want,” I say.
"What type of therapy would you recommend for someone like me?" She turns to me. “Someone who was mentally and physically abused and left for dead,” she says, and I stop breathing. “Someone who begged every single day to die so their suffering would stop." She doesn’t look at me as she walks to the next stall, and her voice remains even. “Someone who went twelve days without eating because I refused to forge a bank paper to get my money early so they could spend it." I was wrong before. This right here is the hardest thing I will ever have to hear. “Someone who couldn’t even tell her birth mother what her fears were because she would help him and make them come true." My whole body goes rigid. “Someone who couldn’t admit when they were cold or hungry or thirsty because it would mean I would get none of those things. Someone who would have to shower in a gas station bathroom sink and not a nice bathroom either. I’m talking about the ones where people shoot up heroin and leave their needles behind. Someone who would sleep with toilet paper in her ears for fear that cockroaches would crawl inside them. Someone who is woken up in the middle of the night and told that we are going and the only thing you can pack is two pairs of jeans and a T-shirt, which is why I always have a bag packed. Someone who doesn’t even know what lemonade tastes like because all she could get is water. Someone who can’t even admit to this day that there are good people out there, especially when it’s right in front of my face." She turns, and I see the tears streaming down her face. I just look at her, unable to answer because of the lump in my throat the size of a fucking soccer ball. "What type of therapy would you give that person?"
I stare at her when I say the next words, knowing maybe she isn’t ready for it, but knowing that there is no better time. “Everything."
Chapter 22
Willow
I didn’t want to tell him any of what I just told him. I didn’t want him to know what I went through. Even if he saw me beaten almost to death, he didn’t need to know the other parts of it. He didn’t need to know the hell I lived in. That was my burden to carry and mine alone.
But with him here in the barn, looking at all the people who he helped, I wondered. Was I broken to the point where I couldn’t be fixed?
I didn’t even try to hide the tears, not after everything I just told him. His expression wasn’t that of pity, it was one of almost rage and sadness but not pity. I walk to the next stall to see the horse when his words stop me from taking another step.
"Everything." I look over at him. “You deserve everything,” he says, his own tear running down his cheek. "There is no one who deserves it more." His voice trails off at the end.