isn't as big or as well-furnished.

It feels foreign and unfamiliar to call this place home.

I miss my old kitchen, my old sofa.

Yes, I remember the bad stuff. I remember being pressed against the glass wall of my shower, I remember being brutalized and beaten in my old bedroom, on that old mattress.

But with a warm, far away glow I can also recall the soft, ragged carpet of my living room where Caleb hovered over me that one time, whispering words of affection against my skin, my hands tangled in his golden hair and his head buried between my legs.

I remember countless batches of cupcakes, remember laughing my head off with Shauna, confiding in Natalia, bantering playfully with Caleb over a cup of hot coffee.

I remember Nero's arms around me, the things he mumbled into my hair as I straddled his hips while he leaned back into the couch, the bright, heavy haze of brilliant emotion that hovered over us.

Dr. M says that it's a good thing, to have fond memories like this. Because it means that the pain doesn't, will never, completely overshadow the joy. It means that I don't have to hurt forever, it means that I'm well on my way to recovery.

So yeah, I miss the muscle memory of my fingers reaching reflexively for the light switch by the door. I miss the angle of the sun's rays that shone into my studio, illuminating bright acrylic streaks as my brush swept across canvas.

But at the same time, this place feels like a fresh start. And I really need a fresh start.

•§•

has healed and my finger splint is removed, I go back to work.

I focus on my clients, on my projects, digging into the design and aesthetics, measurements and templates and mock-ups and concepts, custom typefaces and obsessive kerning.

It feels good to be useful again. Sitting in front of my computer with Adobe splayed across my screen is comfortable and familiar.

I am capable, I can do my job well, I can make a living for myself.

Make a note of situations and tasks you feel in control of. List activities you are able to complete competently and confidently. I can hear Dr. Maneck's rhythmic, factual voice describing my homework for the week.

You control your own actions. You decide what to do and what not to do, in any given situation.

It's surprisingly comforting, following that type of thinking. I feel empowered and stronger. I wish I had started CBT a long, long time ago.

•§•

hardest part of therapy so far is asking for forgiveness.

Shauna, Daniel, my parents. The ice between us still hasn't thawed completely. They love me and they care about me but they are still confused and hurt, and if I were them I would feel the same way.

I have to make amends. And it's not going to be easy.

Two months after the attack, I invite Shauna over to my new apartment for the first time. She's been distant, hasn't texted much, and I know she's still processing it.

But the secrets are out. There's no more hiding, no more lies, and what I want, what I need, is to have my best friend back.

When I open the door to let her in, she gives me a small, weak smile. "Hey."

"Hey, Shauna."

She barely looks at me. Her endless, boundless, cheerful energy is subdued.

When I sit us down with coffee and her favourite red velvet cupcakes, she still isn't willing to meet my eyes.

"Shauna," I breathe, and I can hear the apology in my own voice.

She raises an eyebrow, glances up at me. She's hurt, it's obvious. She has the right to be. "Yeah, Ros?"

"I am so, so sorry, Shauna. I shouldn't have kept secrets from you. I know you feel betrayed, and I can't take any of it back but I can apologize."

Her eyes soften. She lets out a tired sigh. "I just wish you trusted me more than that, Ros."

"I trust you so much, Shauna. But I didn't tell you because I was afraid and ashamed." I grab her hand, squeeze it tight. "I was worried that I was going to get hurt, and I didn't want to involve you in it. I didn't want to put you in danger, Shauna."

Her eyes glisten. She's trying not to cry. "I'm sorry you had to go through all that alone, Ros. I can't even imagine. It's so fucking messed up."

"I know. I know, I know." I hop off the stool and step towards her, and she lets me wrap my arms around her shoulders and tug her into a hug. "It was selfish but I needed something normal in my life, Shauna. You were normal and I held onto that because it kept me sane."

She sniffles into my shirt. "You're my oldest friend, Ros. We're supposed to tell each other everything. Please, please keep me in the loop next time."

And I laugh because holy shit there better not be a next time.

"Why are you laughing?" she chokes, sobbing and giggling at the same time.

"Don't worry, Shauna, you'll be the first to know if I'm threatened and seduced by another member of the mob."

And we pull apart and look at each other and fall into a fit of laughter, because laughing is always better than crying.

"Ros, he better have been good, girl." She wipes tears from her eyes with a sleeve, shaking her head. "He better have been the best damn sex you've ever had in your life. Like, made your vagina cry from how incredible he was."

I can't help but blush at the thought. Normally, I don't like to talk about this kind of thing. But today I think I can indulge her. "Spectacular, Shauna. Imagine the best you've ever had and multiply it by a hundred. By a million."

I can see the same old sparkle light up her eyes, mischief overtaking each feature. "I mean, he's a total ass and of course I hate him but oh my God, he is so hot, Ros."

"He's not an ass." My heart beats faster, thinking about it.

"He has a nice ass."

I groan, suppressing a smile. "You saw him like, twice, Shauna."

But then I'm picturing Nero's very nice ass and my face gets a little too warm.

"You're so whipped, Rosalyn. I see it on your face."

I don't argue with her, because she's not wrong.

"I still can't believe it," she continues, the edge of her voice teasing. "Boring, vanilla, prudish Rosalyn Clark seduces a walking sex god from the Vancouver mafia and nearly gets killed in the process. Someone should write a book about you."

"No one would want to read something so stupid, Shauna."

"How big is his dick?"

I try and fail to fight the mental images away. She laughs at me and I realize that I zoned out for a moment, my mouth parted in a small o from the memory of it.

"I'll take that to mean eight inches plus, then."

My face is red, and I give her a dirty look. "Maybe this is why I didn't tell you, Shauna."

"You owe me big, babe. I get to know everything." She leans in and whispers, "So did you finally try anal?"

I don't think I owe her enough to dignify that question with a response.

•§•

landscapes. I draw my inspiration from the Rockies, the Pacific, the incredible nature that us Canadians are proud of.

But lately, when I've sat down to paint or draw, what flows from the end of my brush, my pencil, isn't peaceful or tranquil or easy like mountains and oceans.

Any decent painter will tell you that great landscapes can be created with few colors. You mix, and mix, and blend and tint and shade until you create your masterpiece. I normally never use black paint, preferring to shadow using browns and yellows and reds and blues, mashed together into something that resembles darkness. It looks more natural that way.

But whatever creative power controls my artistry has decided that black is my new favourite color. My new paintings are dark and stark and undeniably powerful. I've been channeling all my negativity, all the hurt and shame and pain into a series of bold, abstract fury.

Heavy, thick strokes of black and grey, with small patches of vibrant color peaking out, overshadowed, underneath. It's the annihilation of beauty. To take something and destroy it. But the hint of brightness beneath the impenetrable dark is a faint suggestion of hope.

It's like naked emotion on canvas. It's shocking and it compels you to look twice.

I think I've discovered the true meaning of art therapy.

•§•

has also been caught in the aftermath of the explosion of my life.

When Daniel found out that I had kept all this from him, I know it hurt. But to find out that Natalia also kept it from him must have hurt a lot more.

I feel bad. They're perfect together. She's calm where he's temperamental, he's hopeful while she's cynical. They love each other, I know it. But they're barely talking these days. We live in the same house, Ros, she told me, and he can't even look at me anymore.

Another thing that I seem to have ruined.

You can't change the past, but you can control what happens in the present.

"Daniel," I begin over the phone. I hope he can hear how sorry I am.

He just sounds tired. "Hey, Rosie." There isn't the same affection behind that nickname.

"I'm sorry, Danny. I am so, so damn sorry." Shit, my voice is cracking and there are tears in my eyes. So much for doing this calmly, rationally.

He's silent for a long time. "I know you are, Ros." His tone is soft and I wait for him to say more, but he doesn't.

We should have done this in person, I know. But he's been avoiding me, making excuses about work and appointments and meetings and there is only so much I can chase him when he doesn't want to be caught.

"It's not fair for me to ask you to forgive me, Daniel. But please, please don't blame Natalia for any of this. She was there for me when I needed it. And I know how hard it was for her, keeping it from you. But you didn't know she was related to the Santinos and she didn't want to hurt you and—"

"Rosalyn," he interrupts, and the emotion in his voice is palpable. "I was going to propose to her."

My mouth opens a little in shock.

"Before she told me the truth about her family. I bought a ring and everything. And then when she told me, I felt like I didn't trust her the same way, like I didn't really know her like I thought. And then, this all happened and..."

Oh Daniel. This story sounds so tragically familiar, and there's no way in hell I'm going to let the universe get away with something so cruel again.

"She loves you, Daniel," I whisper. "I love you." I brush the lingering dampness away from my cheek with the back of my hand. "And I know what it's like keeping secrets from the people you love, and it sucks. And I lost Caleb before I could tell him the truth. And I would give anything, anything, Daniel, to have him back so I can just tell him, so he could forgive me. Because I know he would forgive me, Daniel, because he loved me and..." And fuck, I'm crying I'm crying I can't stop the hot tears that stream down my cheeks, my throat burns and my eyes are leaking and all those old wounds that I thought had healed are aching again. "Forgive her, Daniel. Because she's alive and you're alive and you love each other, and at the end of the day that's all that will ever matter."

And then Nero's face flashes across my blurred mind, and I'm such a fucking hypocrite. My heart thuds painfully in my chest from the memory of us. But it's not the same thing, is it?

And it's been a month since I've seen him and I miss him, my heart misses him.

But I know, I know what's good for me and what's good for him, and being together right now is neither. Not if I want us to work out in the end. And I really, really need us to work.

"I love you too, Rosalyn," Daniel breathes hoarsely. "And I'm sorry I've been distant. It was immature but I was too hurt to face you."

"It's okay." I sniffle. "I just want my family back, Danny. Even if I don't deserve you."

I know he's crying too. "You deserve everything, Rosie."

You are a person deserving of goodness and happiness. Dr. M's sage voice echoes through my head.

And this time I choose to believe it.

***

A/N:

So, I predict three to four more chapters.

I don't think anything is ever so black and white, but like always, I'd love to hear your opinion.

XOXO Ami

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