Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 82514 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82514 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
I think.
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
Erik brushed my shoulder and turned me to face him. “You don’t have to do this. You do plenty for this place as it is.”
I gave him the most reassuring smile I could muster past the nerves. “I know, but I want to. I want to use what happened to me for good. I want to control it. And I’m not only doing it for them. Maybe I need it, too.”
Just like Daniel had suggested.
Sabrina. Sabrina. Sabrina.
Each time I thought of him, her name trailed behind it like a haunting echo I couldn’t escape. Each time I thought of her name, I wanted to scream, rage—I wanted to crumble.
I’d been reduced to replaying every moment we spent together and analyzing the way he looked at me, the things he said to me, the things he did to me. Was he picturing her the whole time? Had he seen me in the past few months at all? I hated it. One small slip and everything came crashing apart. It was like taking the most bottom right piece of the Jenga game first. Of course, it was going to fall.
I overthought every single second, slowly going insane. The thoughts would keep me from sleeping, and I’d lie in bed at four in the morning, staring at the ceiling, starting from beginning to end all over again.
I’d gotten so frustrated one morning, I ran. Ran like I could outrun the thoughts running rampant over my heart. Self-doubt crept in, and I ran from that too. I hated running.
I still hated it, but I’d learned to use it. I popped my earbuds in and listened to music, drowning out the world, and processing it all. When processing became too much, I went back to the music and the thud of my feet on the pavement—the sharp knives in my lungs.
Anything was better than the worst-case scenario. Anything was better than him imagining her instead of me from the beginning.
Each morning I convinced myself a little more, that it really was an accident—a slip of the tongue in the heat of the moment. How many times had I called Ian by Erik’s name, and vice versa? Everyone did it. It could be explained away so easily.
Except, I couldn’t let it go that easily. What if it hadn’t been an excuse? What if I gave in and believed him, only to find out later I was wrong? It wasn’t like he’d admit it if it was true. Who did that? Who admitted they’d done something so terrible without being cornered? No one.
That doubt had kept me from calling him—from seeking him out for an explanation. Because I knew how much I wanted to believe him, and he wouldn’t even have to try before I begged for him to hold me again.
“Are you ready?” Erik asked, bringing me out of my thoughts.
I shook out my arms, rolling my head around my neck, and breathed as deep as my lungs could expand. One thing Daniel had given me that he couldn’t take away was the confidence that I could own my past. Not just accept it but own it. And I fully intended to.
“Yeah.”
“I’ll be right outside if you need me.”
He squeezed my hand and rounded the corner to a smaller seating area. He hadn’t wanted to be in the room to hear everything, and I didn’t want him to know all that had happened either. It would only weigh on him more than it already did. He also stayed away from the women as much as possible to help them feel comfortable in their readjustment.
I closed the doors behind me and smiled at the women as I made my way to the empty seat. Some smiled back. Some didn’t. Some looked healthy and almost at the end of their stay in Haven while others looked battered and on the brink of destruction at any moment.
“Hi, guys. I’m Hanna Brandt. My brother and I started Haven together.”
“You help run the charity thing,” one of the girls says. She had been one to share her story at the gala, and I envied her bravery, talking about her survival in front of hundreds to bring awareness.
“Yeah. I, uh, I’m also the catalyst for Haven. Me and my sister, Sofia.” A few met my eyes while others stared at their fidgeting hands, and I struggled to swallow past the lump in my throat. “She died when we were taken as teens.”
At that confession, everyone’s eyes snapped to mine, and I struggled to meet theirs. I took off my bracelets, setting them on the coffee table and laid my hands on my knees, not hiding the faint pink scars.
“I was shackled to a bed for almost the entire four months. And I fought like hell to break free for the first couple of weeks,” I said, explaining the marks. “Four months we survived—if you can call it that—until Sofia didn’t. I was rescued the next day.” Wetness leaked unbidden down my cheek, and I swiped it away.