“I can’t believe you’ve never been to Sunflower. It’s right next to the yoga studio, and they have the best…the best lattes and treats. You’re going to just die they’re so good!” Grace smiles widely as she pulls open the door of the bakery.

The scents of fresh baked bread and cinnamon rolls billow in the air. My mouth waters, and I’m reminded I haven’t eaten anything since the granola bar I had before class. “Smells divine.”

Grace nods excitedly, her eyes bright and shining. “Hi, guys!” She gets into the long line while waving over to a table where two older women sit alongside a handsome man with dirty-blond hair as well as a lovely brunette wearing a pair of medical scrubs. The male is holding the brunette’s hand on his thigh.

I wonder how nice it would be to have someone’s affection like that. A man who wanted to hold my hand while having an outing with friends. I try not to stare and instead concentrate on the displays of sinful delights to choose from.

Grace nudges my shoulder and lowers her voice. “The redhead is Jewel Marigold, and the blonde with big blue eyes is Crystal Nightingale. The two of them are the yoga gurus of Lotus House and the co-owners. The blond hottie is Dash Alexander. He teaches tantric yoga and all the couples yoga classes, often with his wife, Dr. Amber Alexander. She’s a resident at UCSF Medical Center. Word is they are going to try to get pregnant soon! Eeek!” She squeals into my ear at a lower decibel than her normal high volume but enough to have me veering away to protect my eardrum.

I shake my head. The level of excitement in this young woman is incredible. Her love of life in general is commendable. I’m not sure a person could be around Grace for long and not be filled with glee and jubilation. It surrounds her like a golden bubble of light.

“Are you excited about going on a date with my brother?” She blinks sweetly, changing the subject so fast I get whiplash.

“I guess so.”

A little scowl forms on her face, and it’s basically the equivalent of smacking a puppy. Not a pretty sight, but again, it changes within a second as we make our way to the front of the line and are greeted by the same woman who signed me up as a member at Lotus House.

I blink a couple times and stare at her name card. Dara. Yes, that’s the same name.

“Hi, Gracie. What’s shakin’ baby?” She nods my way. “Made a new friend, I see.”

Grace puts her arm around my shoulders and tucks me close, as if we are long-lost sisters separated at birth. “Totally! She’s Nick’s new squeeze.” She uses some jive talk I understand but would never utter myself.

“Really?” Dara’s Caribbean-blue eyes widen nearly to the size of the stunning cupcakes sitting on the lower level of the display.

Hadn’t seen those when I walked in. Maybe I want one of those instead of the cinnamon roll. Hmmm.

“Uh-huh. He’s taking her out on a date on Friday.”

Note to self: do not say anything to Grace you don’t want repeated and printed in the San Francisco Chronicle.

“You’re taming the wild man, eh?” Dara says to me.

I shrug, not really knowing how to respond, so I settle on redirection and obfuscation. “Not really. It’s not a big deal. He just asked me out.”

Dara puts a hand to her hip and cocks one side out, showing some serious cool-girl attitude. I don’t know what to make of it. “Did you not know that Nick doesn’t date clients at Lotus House?”

I pucker my lips and shrug again. It really isn’t my business whom he dates.

“Did you take one of his classes?” she asks.

“Yes, I took his aerial yoga class last Friday.” Shoot! That reminds me that this Friday, I technically have a blind date my mother set up. Now I also have one with Nick. How in the world did I go from having no dating life to having two in one day?

“Oh, so you’re not just Grace’s client. You’re Nick’s too? Mmm-hmm, I see what’s happening here,” Dara says with a pout and a chin bob like she’s got it all figured out, while I have no clue what’s happening between Nick and myself.

“Which would be what?” I inquire, genuinely wanting to know her take. If the laundry is out drying, might as well let it fly in the breeze.

“The Italian Stallion took one look at you and saw nothing but light. Same as I see. Only you’re drenched in purple goodness, honey.”

“Purple what?” I’ve gotten lost somewhere.

“Your aura, sweet girl. It’s purple with a tinge of light brown. I don’t like seeing the brown there.”

“Ooookkkaaay. I’m sorry,” I offer, not really knowing what else to say, but I make a mental note to go online and purchase a book on auras from Amazon.

Dara tips her head back and laughs. Grace does as well.

“You can’t be sorry for your aura. It is what it is. Just means we’ve got some work to do. You’re not very confident right now in the situation or in where you are in your life. It’s okay. We all have times in our lives where we’re in a state of flux. You’ll find your way.” Dara leans forward conspiratorially. “And if that happens to be in the bed of an Italian man, more power to ya, sista!”

Pinpricks spark all over my nerve endings with her suggestion. “All righty, then. I’ll have the cinnamon roll and a very strong latte, as well as whatever she’s having.” I point to Grace and pull out a couple of twenties and drop them on the counter.

“Mmm-hmm. I get you, girl. You’re nervous about the Stallion. I would be, too. He’s a definite catch.” She nods and finally carries on with her work.

Grace beams. “Thank you, bestie,” she says, breaking up the tension and gesturing to the money on the counter.

“Least I can do. You taught a great class.”

Dara gets our items, and I take the tray while Grace bounces over to the table with the foursome she knows. They each give her hugs, smiles, and all of their attention. What I wouldn’t give to be able to feel free and safe in my own skin.

Grace pops back over and sits in the chair opposite me, her braid swinging along with her enthusiasm.

“You know, I admire you.” I surprise myself when I admit my thoughts out loud. Then I mentally give myself a pat on the back because Dr. Hart would be proud of that. I may even tell her about it.

My new friend’s eyebrows furrow. “Why? You’re the one with the perfect hair, skin, eyes, and body. I mean, your boobs are sooooo awesome!”

I burst out with laughter. An absolute first for me, especially in a packed dining space.

“Not gonna lie.” She lifts a finger and points to my left and then right breast. “My brother is going to love those. He’s a boob man. You should totally wear a shirt that shows off the ta-tas on Friday! He’ll lose his dago mind! Oh, I know! We should go shopping this week! Find you something awesome. What do you say? Say yes!” Now I see this is a familial trait with the Salernos: well-meaning but pushy.

Then again, I haven’t gone shopping with a female since my college roommate. We didn’t even like each other but had been stuck in the same space for four years and attempted to be friendly. Turns out our problem was me being too prissy and she too gothic. Needless to say, we didn’t share the same tastes in clothes, let alone stores to shop at. With that—retail therapy—having been my one and only foray into female bonding, I figure it couldn’t hurt to go with Grace. It’s definitely getting out of the house and following the new list of things Dr. Hart suggested I do. Venturing out was a big one.

“Sure,” I agree once more, breaking out of my hidey-hole.

On that note, Grace pokes her finger into her cinnamon roll, scoops up some frosting, and then plops her finger into her mouth. Absolutely abhorrent manners. There is never a reason one should place their finger into their mouth. Ever. So because she did it, I do it too. A little thrill of excitement at breaking good-girl societal rules ripples up my spine.

I let out an unladylike moan once the frosting touches my taste buds. “It’s so good.”

“Told you!” Grace shimmies in her chair, dancing to a beat only she can hear.

“Grace, where would one purchase good-quality yoga attire like what you’re wearing?”

She lifts her head, and I swear the smile she gives is one of the cat having eaten a canary variety. “What’s your budget?” Her honest question comes out around a mouth full of roll. Gross and yet still endearing. I’m beginning to think this woman could be covered in excrement, and the world would still find her adorable.

“Budget? I have no budget. Ever.” I say it before I can filter out my mother’s ingrained words, realizing too late how hoity toity and stuck up it sounds.

Grace pleases me again by not flinching or showing the slightest unease. “Sweet! Guess we’re going to get the best and hit lululemon in Frisco!”

“And for helping me, I’ll purchase you an outfit of your choice as well.”

Her eyes get huge. “For real! No way. You are crazy, girl. One top costs like two hundred dollars!”

“Then we must get you a few of them!” I half joke and wink. If the girl takes me shopping, I’m giving something to her in return. “Wish not, want not, Gracie,” I say, using the nickname I heard her brother use.

She takes another bite of her roll and dances in her chair once more. I follow along, eating my roll with a fork, sans the dancing, but I definitely do it smiling.

---

“And you’ll never believe what I did!” I pace behind the couch in Dr. Hart’s office.

She leans back and places a hand over her baby bump. Today she’s wearing a silk T-shirt dress that perfectly accentuates her protruding belly. I wonder if one day that life is in the cards for me. Before this week, I wouldn’t have even dared give it a thought. Now, I don’t know.

“What did you do?” Monet smiles, her lips painted a pale, glossy pink that goes well with her outfit. She looks like the goddess of Mother Nature. Fertile, with long flowing curls, pink lips, and a caring smile.

I shake off the random thoughts and go back to my pacing. “I accepted a date,” I offer proudly. “With a man.”

She chuckles. “That’s great. Where did you meet?”

“At the place where I’m taking yoga.”

“And how is that going for you, the yoga?” She alters my train of thought, breaking my desire to talk about Nick. It’s all about Nick lately. Every waking thought is about him or his sister.

I frown. “Fine. No, better than fine. Great. I’m working my body and muscles in ways I never dreamed, and I even made a friend.” I straighten my spine and lift my head.

“A friend?”

“Yes! We’re going shopping this week. And she’s the sister of the man who asked me on a date. She also teaches at the yoga studio.”

Dr. Hart leans forward placing her elbow on her knee. “I’m… I must say I’m really pleased with this progress. A new physical activity, a new friend, and a date. You’ve had quite the week, haven’t you?”

I come around the couch and plop down. Dr. Hart smiles instead of calling me out on my lack of poise.

“I’m sorry. That was rude and inappropriate,” I chastise myself.

She frowns. “No, it was a woman excited about her week, eager to tell me about it. Not rude. Not inappropriate. Now, continue. Let’s start with the yoga. How do you feel it’s helping you?”

I run my hand through my hair and think about how I lose myself, moving into each position. How everything around me just seems to slip away. There’s no anger, no grief, no fear. Just my body being pushed in healthy ways. “I think mentally and physically it’s helping me to balance some of the scrambled thoughts in my mind. It’s making me let go of the negative feelings that I have when I walk into the class. I leave feeling more refreshed. Does that make sense?”

She nods. “Very much so. I find yoga gives me a place of peace. Somewhere I can let my mind wander and just focus on my body and the movements.”

“Yes, exactly.”

“Now, the friend.”

“She’s younger than me,” I point out right away, though I’m not sure why. There’s nothing wrong with having a younger friend. “And she teaches Vinyasa Flow. She’s a very excitable and happy person. Nothing seems to bring her down.”

“And what do you think makes you connect with her?”

That’s the real question. “I don’t know. It’s more that she knows I’m going to go on a date with her brother, and for some reason, she clung on to me.”

“Not some reason. Perhaps she sees a nice girl who’s new to the yoga scene, and she wants to extend a friendly hand. Lots of people out in the world become friends and are often opposites of one another. Maybe she sees poise and class in you that she doesn’t have and would like to learn. Maybe she just thinks you’re new and cool. Or maybe she wants to impress her brother’s date. Whatever the reason, it doesn’t matter; she chose to be your friend. You have to choose to be hers in return.”

“I gave her my phone number, and she’s texted me a dozen times already.” I twirl my onyx ring around my finger.

Dr. Hart chuckles. “Eager, that one.”

“Yeah, I’ll say.” I smile, thinking about the variety of things she’s texted. Some were links to tops at the yoga store. Others were yoga poses. One was a selfie of her and Nick. I secretly made that my background on my phone.

“But isn’t it nice to receive those texts from someone who genuinely wants to talk to you or get your feedback?”

I nod. And she’s right. It really does feel good to have a friend. Picking up my phone and seeing texts from Grace gives me a sense of importance. Usually the only texts I get are from Sean checking in with me. Now I’ve got Sean and Grace texting to me. And supposedly Nick is going to check in with me this week too, prior to our date. I’m very eager to see if that happens.

Which reminds me that I’ve got to figure out a way to break off the date with my mom’s suitor, but honestly, I can hardly be bothered. I think I’m just going to ignore Mother and leave before the man is supposed to arrive. I’ve got yoga that night before I’m supposed to meet him anyway.

“Grace is going to take me shopping this week before my date with her brother. We’re going to get yoga clothes for classes and something that shows off my boobs. Her words not mine.”

Dr. Hart chuckles. “That sounds like fun. Are you looking forward to it?”

Am I? Yes and no. I glance off toward the window, thinking about the best way to answer her question.

“This isn’t a ball in Washington DC where you’ll be meeting the President of the United States,” Dr. Hart states.

I shake my head. “No, that was a couple months ago. I don’t care for the man. Too pompous for my liking, and his wife reminded me of an alien. So much Botox and lip fillers she didn’t seem human anymore.”

Dr. Hart blinks a few times and presses her lips together. “Okay, that analogy didn’t have the desired effect. What I meant to say, Honor, is a shopping date shouldn’t be scary. It’s meant to be fun.”

“But what if she figures out she doesn’t like me or realizes how strange I am?”

Dr. Hart sits back in her chair and rests her fingertips against her lips. “Honor, you might be shy and a little introverted, but you are not strange or weird. I’d like you to get that out of your head. Find a way to abolish that nonsense, because I’ve spent the better part of three months getting to know you, and I like you very much. You’re sweet. Kind. Intelligent. Reserved. And perhaps a bit socially awkward, but that doesn’t make you a person people wouldn’t want to spend time with.”

“It doesn’t?”

“No. It doesn’t. And the sooner you realize it, the more fun you will start to have. I promise. Will you work on giving yourself a break? Try not to think too harshly of your personality. Go into this shopping day with your new friend with an open mind and, better yet, an open heart.”

I nod, tears welling up behind my eyes. I clear my throat and breathe through the meaning behind her words. Still, I’m not sure she’s right. I’ve spent many years being the odd duck. Just because one overly nice girl has latched on to me doesn’t mean I’m no longer the weird, bizarre girl I’d always been in high school and college.

“I’ll try.” It’s all I can promise her.

“Good. Tell me about the man you met.”

Instantly a sense of anticipation and excitement rushes through me. “His name is Nick.” On hearing his name, Monet frowns. Maybe she knows a Nick who does yoga. Nonplussed, I carry on. “He teaches yoga at the studio I go to. He’s Italian and definitely the sexiest man I’ve ever met.”

Dr. Hart’s frown deepens, but she doesn’t say anything.

“I took his class last week. Then I had some type of weird episode in his class…”

“Wait a minute. Episode. Explain this to me.” Her eyes flash with concern as she picks up her legal pad of notes.

“We were doing this position where you’re in a cocoon…”

“Aerial yoga? The Italian man named Nick teaches aerial yoga?” she asks, her voice tight and restrained. I wonder if she knows my Nick.

My Nick. He’s not exactly mine. “Yes.”

Dr. Hart purses her lips. “Continue.”

“Well, I was hanging in this hammock, and he told the class to curl up inside of it and find a resting spot. Then he started talking about feeling safe and protected and loved. My heart started to pound; my skin got ultra-hot, and I couldn’t breathe.”

“Sounds like you had a bit of a panic attack. Those can be very scary and serious. How did you come out of it?” she asks with her doctor first, friendly therapist second tone of voice.

I clear my throat and think back to when it happened. “I popped my feet out of the hammock and scrambled to the surface for air. Nick was right there, holding on to me. He told me to breathe with him, and I did for long enough to get my heartbeat back to normal. He placed his forehead against mine and forced me to focus on him alone. It worked. Once I could breathe more normally, he eased back and finished up the class. I, however, bolted immediately!”

Dr. Hart nodded and scribbled something on her pad. “Why did you leave so quickly?”

I bite down on my bottom lip.

“He seemed like he liked me.”

“Okay, and why does that make you uncomfortable?”

“He doesn’t know me. I’m not that likeable.”

Dr. Hart leans back, crosses her legs, and rests a hand on the roundness of her belly. She moves her hand around the fabric in lazy circles. I’ve never felt a pregnant woman’s baby. Come to think of it, I’ve never even held a baby.

“You are… We just went over this, Honor.”

I frown, cross my arms over my chest, and press against the back of the couch. Skipping the “I’m likeable” conversation, I go right to what’s on my mind. “You know, I’ve never held a baby.”

My doctor stops rubbing her stomach. “I’m going to go out on a limb and say you’re bringing this up because of my pregnancy?”

“Maybe.” I tilt my head.

“Have you ever thought of being a mother?”

I half snort and choke on the gag that tightens my throat. “And end up like my mother? An abuser?” I scoff and turn toward the doctor, missing the importance of what I just revealed.

Dr. Hart’s lips turn into a flat, white line, and her eyes flash with anger. “Honor, may I?” She gestures toward the couch.

At the firmness of her tone, I respond immediately, shifting to the other seat to make room. I sit ramrod straight, my hands in my lap.

The doctor rises and comes to sit next to me. When her hand touches mine, I flinch. She pulls back, eases sideways, and tips her head toward me. “Remember that honesty we talked about? The trust we must have with one another in order for you to get healthy mentally?”

I nod slowly as a sense of dread throbs at the base of my spine, crawling up each vertebra until a heavy sensation makes my limbs feel weighted and unmovable.

“Honor, has your mother physically harmed you?”

I focus on her gaze as my mouth goes completely dry. Fear. Bone-chilling fright coats my tongue, making it impossible to swallow. Not being able to speak, I jerk my head once.

Dr. Hart inhales slowly, her nostrils widening enough for me to know she’s reining in her response, and I think it’s one of anger. “Did this start when you were a child?”

I grip my inner thighs, wishing I had a blade. Instead, I dig my nails into the skin a couple inches above the hem of my skirt. The shock of pain soothes the fear swirling inside, allowing me to speak, but just barely. “Yes,” I mutter and dig my nails deeper.

“When was the last time she hit you? How long ago?”

I shake my head and keep digging into my flesh. I’m certain there will be crescent-shaped indentions in my thighs when I leave today. I hold back the urge to scratch along the tender skin, wanting the pain but fighting the desire because I know it’s not right. I glance at the doctor, and her focus is on my face. She hasn’t moved a muscle, and I don’t think she sees how much I’m struggling with this discussion.

“Honor, you said you trust me. I’m here only for you. To protect you. To help you. Not your mother. Now can you please tell me, when was the last time you remember your mother hitting you? Were you ten, twelve, a teenager?”

She assumes I was young, which makes the truth that much harder to admit. Tears form and fall down my cheeks. Instead of wiping them away, she bends forward and grabs the tissue box on the table in front of me. I don’t want to grab for it, because that would mean I’d have to stop digging my fingers into my thighs. The pain would stop, and I need the pain to get through this.

“No, no, no. I can’t.” I shake my head.

Dr. Hart goes for my hands. Her eyes narrow as she looks down. “Let go, Honor. Stop hurting yourself!” Her words are forceful and direct.

I swallow around the lump in my throat, the tears continuing to fall as I lessen my grip. She eases my skirt up to midthigh, finding the indentations from my fingernails. Thankfully, she doesn’t touch me.

What I didn’t plan for was her also seeing the scars from my high school and college years. “You have much older scars on your inner thighs.” She states this matter-of-factly.

I nod.

“Honor, when was the last time your mother hurt you physically?” This time, she holds my hands, and I clutch at them like a lifeline.

I admit the filthy truth. “Last week.”

Dr. Hart purses her lips and gives a pensive jerk of her head. “Okay. We’re going to fix this together. You hear me?”

I nod and then do something so out of character, I’m shocked I even do it. I pull her into a hug. She holds me close and pets my hair. The instant relief of having someone care rolls through my body in waves. I let it all go, sobbing against the crook of her neck.

“I’m going to help you, Honor. You’re not alone. But the first thing you need to do is leave that house. Immediately.” She eases me back so she can look at my face. “Can you do that? Stay in a hotel until you find a place of your own?”

“A place of my own?” I mumble, my voice small and childlike.

She nods. “It’s time for you to take the next step. Not only for your mental health but your physical health and safety. For now, get into a hotel. Tell your parents whatever you need to in order to leave. Preferably do it when they are not home. You’re twenty-six years old with a hefty inheritance. It’s time to put your wealth to use to protect you.”

“Okay, Dr. Hart.”

“I want you to email me daily with a list of things that you’ve done for yourself that day. It can be as simple as you slept in when you wouldn’t normally. Or you went to yoga. You took a walk. You met up with Grace. I’d like regular communication via email,” she says while writing something down on her yellow pad. “Here’s my email address. Can you do this?”

“Yes.” I start to feel a bit of confidence in the decision to leave. It seems so simple. Move away from my parents and get out from under their reign. “I’ll do it.” I grab the piece of paper with her email on it like it’s a lifeline. Now all I have to do is go home, pack up the things I want to take with me, which isn’t much, and leave. Just leave it all behind.

Freedom is on the horizon. My freedom.

For the first time in a long time, I am genuinely excited. I have a small plan in my head. Get my stuff and move into one of my hotels. Start shopping for a home. Maybe Grace would want to do that too. She seems to like the idea of any type of shopping. Email Dr. Hart my progress. I can do this.

I will do this. For me.