It became a waiting game after that.
I checked in with Colt a lot despite being upset, but I needed to know they were alright. Around eleven that night, my phone beeped, notifying me of a text. I was currently camped out on the floor in the panic room with a bunch of pillows and blankets. I paused Iron Chef on my computer and picked up my phone. It was the unknown number again. I clicked it, and after I read it, relief washed through me.
Oh I’m coming for u bitch. U better watch ur back.
It wasn’t from Mr. X. I was pretty sure it was Cassy or Amber or both, seeing how they’d spelled the word you. I tossed my phone on the floor and relaxed back against my pillows, laughing. It wasn’t funny in the slightest. I rubbed my hands down my face as my eyes filled with tears. I let two escape before pulling myself together.
I turned Iron Chef back on, but I couldn’t pay attention. My mind was racing with what had happened today—how I had acted. I turned off Iron Chef and pulled up my email. I typed in Dr. Bolton’s, my old psychiatrist’s, email. I wrote to her saying that I needed to come back and I hoped she would take me back. I inhaled deeply and exhaled through pursed lips. “Here goes,” I said, hitting send.
If I could take away one good thing from today, it would be that I’d found my strength again.
16
Dr. Bolton squeezed me in the next day via teleconference. I was grateful because I hadn’t slept a wink last night.
“Hello, Shiloh,” she said as she appeared on my computer. She was an elderly woman who reminded me of the actress Helen Mirren. Her hair was snow white and pulled back into an elegant French twist. She wore square-framed glasses that gave her an intelligent look to match her intelligent brain. Dr. Bolton had helped many victims of violent traumas over the decades. “How have you been since we last spoke?” she asked.
“I’m not okay,” I answered honestly, and caught her up on everything that had happened in my life since I’d hung up on her. My new house, my new school, the guys. I didn’t tell her about our relationship. I figured that was a topic for another day. I saved the issue of my nightmares for last. She jotted down notes on a legal pad as she listened.
“I’m going to prescribe you something to take before bed,” she said when we were coming up on the hour mark.
“As appealing as it sounds to be a zombie, I don’t want to be numbed out,” I said.
She jotted that down, too. “It won't do that. It’s to calm you so you can sleep and hopefully keep you asleep all night,” she explained. Then she looked me in the eye through the screen. “This medication isn’t a solution. It’s an aid, and a temporary one.”
I understood what she was getting at and nodded.
“I’m going to be frank with you,” she warned. “Healing is not easy. You’ll have to talk about things I know you don’t want to. Do you understand what I’m saying, Shiloh?”
“I’ll have to talk about that night.”
“Yes, but we’ll take it slow,” she said. “I would like to see you again tomorrow.”
I picked up the medication Dr. Bolton had prescribed me from the pharmacy after our session ended. I was nervous to take it. I fiddled with the bottle, listening to the sound of the pills sliding around inside, as I debated. Even though I was pretty sure the text messages I’d received were from Cassy and her friends, I was still scared. If I took this drug, would it put me in such a deep sleep I wouldn’t hear if someone broke in?
I debated whether or not I should get out of my comfortable bed and spend another night in the panic room on the floor. My sore back and tired body protested.
I grabbed my phone off my nightstand and pulled up Colt’s contact. Before I could talk myself out of it, I hit call and put the phone to my ear.
He answered after two rings. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
“It’s late. Are you okay?” he asked.
I winced. It was close to midnight and he still had school tomorrow. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called.”
“No, no. It’s okay. I couldn’t sleep,” he assured me. “Talk to me.”
“I started therapy today.”
“How did it go?”
“She prescribed me something to sleep, but I’m nervous to take it,” I admitted.
“Why?”
I had to think before answering. “I don’t know how it’s going to affect me.”
“Want me to come over?” he asked.
“I want you to, but I don’t know if it’s a good idea. I’m still upset.”