When We Are Enough (Valiant Hearts #1)

39. Emmy

Chapter 39

Emmy

W alking into the house, trying to shake off the heaviness in my chest after what just happened at the fire station as I unleash Stormy. Ruby and Nora are still watching a show, the flickering light from the TV casting soft shadows across their faces.

“Hi,” I say, my voice sounding distant, even to my own ears. They look up, offer small smiles, but I’m on auto-pilot, barely processing their responses, aware of Patrick entering the house behind me.

Still reeling from the fact that Patrick saw the truth about those scars, saw the ugliest part of me, I move to the sofa where Granny Sloane is asleep. Gently waking her, murmuring soft reassurances as I help her to her feet, pass her the walker, and guide her to her room. She mumbles a sleepy goodnight, and I tuck her in, her frail form settling comfortably under the blankets, white hair fanning around her lined face.

I retreat to my own room, closing the door firmly behind me, hoping Patrick will take the hint and stay away. As I change into my pajamas, my fingers trace the scars on my thigh, the familiar sensation bringing a mix of shame and regret .

No one else, not Travis or any of my other boyfriends, ever doubted my explanation that they were from a prior surgery. And if they didn’t believe me, none of them ever pushed me, no doubt sensing it wasn’t something I was prepared to talk about.

Sometimes I used to wonder if Maddy or my mom had told Travis the truth, or if he figured it out himself, but he is a lot like my mom in some ways, the kind of guy who never likes to cause a scene, and to be honest, in the cold light of day, our relationship long dead, it was pretty clear he never cared about my mental health in any way, shape or form.

I’m sure it was easier for him to pretend that everything was fine, that I had no issues. That I wasn’t damaged. Or maybe he knew all along, and that’s why he cheated with Maddy.

But Patrick saw them, really saw them, and asked.

Crawling into bed, the sheets cool against my skin, my mind races, replaying the moment in the fire truck. I wish Patrick had never seen those scars up close, put two and two together.

I think about how much I’ve fallen for him, how deep my feelings run, and it’s almost too much to bear. I don’t want to burden him with my issues, don’t want to poison his family.

Maybe I should have listened to my instincts instead of my heart. Keeping away from him would have been the smarter choice. Because all the stuff with my family, with Travis, my own issues—my scars—that’s meant to be firmly in the past.

Lying in bed, the sheet wrapped around my bare legs, I think about the exquisite pain of letting the hurt out, the way the blood beading at the incision point would feel like a pressure valve finally being released. I wouldn’t do that now, not here in this house, but at times like this, when my emotions are in knots, when it feels like the mess of my life is unraveling, the urge is strong.

I am stronger than my urges. This moment will pass.

I say my mantra over and over, breathing through it. Patrick’s discovery of the truth about the scars feels like he’s uncovered the worst part of me. The weak part. The part that’s pretty much the opposite of just fun and nothing serious .

My call with Kathy is finally scheduled for tomorrow and it couldn’t have come at a better time. But for now, I’m alone with my thoughts. Tossing and turning, thoughts volleying back and forth, unable to find any answers, until eventually a fitful sleep finds me.

When I wake, the sun’s up but the house is quiet. Patrick is gone and the others are still asleep. I’m glad he didn’t come to me in the night wanting to talk, but a hollow feeling settles in my chest, anyway, a deep sense of missing him. I push it aside and when Granny Sloane wakes a short time later, I focus on helping her with her morning exercises. We move through the familiar motions, me finding solace in the routine.

Afterward, I join Ruby, who is gathering cleaning supplies to head to the gallery, while Nora stays with Granny Sloane and Stormy. We park on Main Street and walk the rest of the way. The gallery is still a mess, with water damage to the furniture and walls, debris scattered everywhere.

The once beautiful glass sculpture that had sat at the front entrance is now in pieces on the floor, its intricate waves and crests shattered and scattered by the wind and storm surge. The shards glint under the overhead light, reflecting the colors of the room, chaotic and mesmerizing.

Ruby’s face is set in a stoic expression as she starts to pick up the pieces, sorting them by color into small baskets, and I follow her lead. Each piece has its own shape and texture, some smooth and others sharp, and I’m careful to avoid stepping on any as we move through the gallery.

“What will you do with all these pieces of glass?” I ask, holding a blue piece up to the light.

“I’ll smooth down the edges and add them to my beach glass collection,” Ruby says, her voice warm despite the damage to her beloved gallery all around us .

“Beach glass?”

“Yes, glass pieces I find on the beach that have been smoothed by the motion of the waves. They’re beautiful, trash that’s been turned into treasure. Something broken that I repurpose into something beautiful. I use them to make mosaic style pieces set in ceramic. Or jewelry.”

Something broken made beautiful. My throat feels suddenly and unexpectedly dry, and I look away. I can sense Ruby’s eyes on me.

“Thank you for helping,” she says after a few beats of silence, her voice gentle and sincere. “It means a lot. You feel like part of the family now. I hope you know that.”

I nod, unable to find my voice for a moment. “I’m glad to be here,” I finally manage to say.

We continue working in silence, the sound of broken glass being sorted and debris being cleared away filling the space between us. Ruby’s words linger in my mind, the idea of turning something broken into something beautiful. It’s hard not to wonder if the same could be true for me, if all my jagged pieces could somehow be smoothed by time and care.

As we head home for the birthday celebration for Patrick’s dad, the sun starts to move lower in the sky. Ruby immediately sets to work in the kitchen, the comforting smell of lasagna filling the air—apparently Paddy’s favorite meal. Nora busies herself setting up the projector in Granny Sloane’s living room, before searching through a box of home videos.

It’s time for my call with Kathy, and I tell Ruby I’m stepping out for a bit, taking a brief walk before dinner. She nods as she stirs the pot on the stove. Grabbing my jacket and cell phone before heading out the front door, the cool evening air sharpens my senses. The piles of fall leaves have grown thicker since I arrived, dusk holding the promise of winter.

Pulling out my phone, checking the time, scrolling through my contacts until I find Kathy’s number. I hit call and bring the phone to my ear. It rings twice before she picks up, her voice instantly calming.

“Emmy, how are you? It’s been almost six months since we last spoke.”

“A lot has happened since then,” I say. A bitter laugh. “Things with Travis ended because he and Maddy had an affair and I’m no longer living in Philadelphia.”

There’s a moment of silence on the other end, and I choke out my next words. “But it’s fine, really. It’s behind me now. No big deal.”

“Emmy,” Kathy says gently, “that is a big deal. You’re allowed to have feelings about everything that happened. You’re allowed to be really mad. Have you spoken to your sister since it happened?”

“We spoke briefly. I just need some time.”

“And how are you feeling about it?”

“You know, shit happens sometimes. But I’m in Harbor’s Edge now. I’m working for a great family. They’re amazing.”

“You don’t need to minimize your pain or your emotions,” Kathy says.

“Really, I’m moving on. I’ve met a guy. Patrick.” I glance at the house opposite. There’s a big tree felled in the storm across the front yard, most of the branches already sawn off. A light is on inside, and a pretty woman sits on a stool behind the kitchen bench, talking to a dark-haired man stirring something on the stove.

“You said you’ve been having urges again?”

“That’s right. And the guy, Patrick, well he saw the scars on my legs yesterday and he knew what they were. He asked about them. He wanted me to open up about it, asked if I’m still hurting myself.”

The silence stretches between us, but it’s comfortable, filled with enough space for me to collect my thoughts before I continue.

“I’ve been fighting with the urge to cut myself, but I’ve got it under control,” I say. “I’m confident I’m not going to cut again. But now that he’s really seen them, I just can’t face him. I should have been more careful so he didn’t see them in the light. God, I’m so angry with myself.”

“Emmy,” Kathy’s voice is firm yet kind, “it’s okay to be scared. It’s okay to want to protect yourself. But have you talked to Patrick about how you’re feeling?”

I shake my head, even though she can’t see me. “No. I’m terrified. I don’t want him to know how messed up I am.”

“Let’s break this down. First off, you are not messed up. But we’ve talked about this at length. He’s already seen a part of you that you usually keep hidden, and he didn’t run. Maybe that means he cares about you more than you realize. Maybe he’s not going to reject you because of what he saw.”

I take a deep breath, thinking about what she’s said. “You think I should open up to him, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Kathy says softly. “Sometimes it’s worth taking a risk. You deserve to be with someone who sees all of you and still chooses to stay. You deserve to be loved for who you are, scars and all. Nobody is perfect, Emmy. You are smart and beautiful and a pleasure to be around.”

A tear slips down my cheek, and I quickly wipe it away.

“Remember, Emmy, you don’t have to do this alone. You have people who care about you. Lean on them when you need to. Schedule another call with me. I’m always here for you. And it’s okay to take small steps. You don’t have to open up all at once. If things feel overwhelming, take a step back and breathe. You’re stronger than you think.”

“Thanks, Kathy,” I say. “Thanks for fitting me in.”

“Always. I’m rooting for you, Emmy.”

We end the call and I take a moment, staring out at the darkening sky. Kathy’s words echo in my mind, weaving through my thoughts like a lifeline. Maybe Patrick really does care about me, despite learning the truth about my scars. He’s seen a part of me that I usually hide, and he didn’t run a mile like I was some kind of monster.

But just the thought of opening up to him, exposing myself fully, is terrifying. Because deep down, there’s the undeniable fear that the real, unfiltered me is completely unlovable.