Page 99 of Wildflowers & Whiskey

“No, just…” I run both hands down my face. “I don’t know… what to do.”

“You don't have to do anything with it today. You don't have to decide what this means. You don't have to figure your entire life out in the next ten minutes.”

My breathing starts to slow, and my pace follows.

“This assessment isn't a judgement, Colt. It doesn't change who you are. It simply gives us a map. A way to understand why you've experienced things the way you have.”

I throw myself back on the sofa as I listen to everything else Dr. Palmer has to say. The process, the wait times, and more reminders that this diagnosis, if I meet the criteria, does not define me as a person.

By the time I sit in the truck, everything around me feels weird and heavy. But underneath everything, there's a small trace of relief. Relief that I am potentially close to finding an answer to a question I’ve been asking my whole life. Why am I the way I am?

Borderline Personality Disorder. Not a disordered personality, just an understanding of how the inside of my brain works.

I rest my head back against the seat and close my eyes, Maeve's face last night immediately coming into my thoughts. The way she looked when I said what I said. Hurt. Confused. Like she didn't recognise me.

She was trying to do the right thing. And she has been nothing but honest with me from the start.

What scares me is that all these intense feelings won’t just fade in an instant, just because I know what a favourite person is. But the least I can do is go make things right with Maeve, explain to her what I learnt today in hopes she understands. Don't know whether she'll want to hear it. But I know I can't let it sit the way I left it. I start the engine and head home.

Chapter Thirty Seven

Maeve

Pity party for one, hosted in the back garden’s treehouse. Sure as hell didn’t have that on tonight's agenda.

Not really sure what possessed me to climb up here, but it felt right seeing it from the bedroom window, lit up by moonlight like it was in the spotlight. Took that as a sign to move from the bedroom to here. Hoping that the night breeze does something to soothe me, like it has a way of doing.

And it’s not like balance is my forte at the best of times, so why on God's earth did I think I was capable of climbing a tree one-handedly baffles me. Now I’ve got a nice angry red mark across my hand where the coffee spilt over.

The lingering sting actually feels good as I press my thumb on it, adding to the sensation. The sharpness grounds me, pulling me back into my body away from the mess that’s in my head. It’s a familiar feeling, taking me back to when the only thing that would pull me out of dissociation was some sort of self-inflicted pain. I try not to judge myself for it even now; I was just a child locked in a room most nights, not feeling safe in the one place I was supposed to. That was out of my control, but my body. That I could control, so I learnt to use it even in the most maladaptive ways, just so I could take myself away from everything and focus on the physical hurt.

It’s been years, though, since I’ve relapsed into old habits. I’ve been trying to be kinder to myself, allow myself time to feel emotions, as it tends to be the only way to get through it. But after yesterday… I feel lost. Out of control. And I have no one else to blame but myself.

I’ve fucked up massively. Thought telling Colt I didn’t have feelings for him would stop his feelings for me; stupid of me to assume feelings work on logic, especially when my own definitely don’t. But now he’s hurt, because of me. Didn’t even stop to talk to me earlier, just got in his car and sped away.

I get that though; I also ran away last night when things came crashing down. Going from an absolute high, trying to comfort Wade, only to end up hurting the other man I care about. The boy who has become my best friend throughout this whole experience.

A ranch hand gave me a lift back, no questions asked. My phone was absolutely popping off with missed calls and messages. I just switched it off and went to bed. Not that I slept.

I heard everyone arrive in front of the main house at God knows what hour, saying their goodbyes and heading to their own places. But not Wade. No, he slipped into my room to check on me. I stayed still, eyes shut, pretending I was asleep. Not wanting to face the inevitable conversation I know we need to have.

I felt every movement, the way he sat on the edge of the bed, the brush of my hair, and the soft kisses pressed on my forehead. Followed by a quiet murmur, “Night, angel” before leaving the room.

I cried as soon as he left the room, and don’t think I’ve stopped since.

Erghhhh. I rub my hand over my face.

Wildbrook Hollow’s just shadows at night, but I know every inch of it now. Committed it all to memory, not wanting to forget any detail of the place I’ve come to love. The place I have never felt safer in.

And yet, I’ve got to leave next month. Go back to London like this isn’t the closest I’ve ever come to what I’ve been searching for all these years. Just… carry on as normal, book the next trip and pretend anything’s going to come close to this.

It won’t.

Because Wildbrook Hollow doesn't feel like home because of the place. It feels like home because of the people.

Colt. Mrs. Mae. Naomi. Even Bryan.

And Wade…