Love Rewards The Brave by Anya Monroe Read Free Book Online

like I’m invading her personal space.
    The office would’ve been better
    less at stake
    when you don’t have to be
    six inches apart.
     
    “Is everyone okay?”
     
    My hands shake
    as I ask the question
    that scares me most.
     
    “Yes, oh, of course, Louisa. I’m sorry, did you think you were here for bad news?”
     
    Her hand goes to her forehead, upset.
     
    “I’m sorry, I see how you feel confused. No, everyone is fine. I actually have something of yours I think you might really like to have back.”
     
    She looks at me
    hopeful.
    Hopeful that she didn’t
    get it wrong.
    I look back at her
    my eyes burning
    with relief.
    Good grief
    get it together. 
    I was worried for nothing
    rushed here for nothing
    everyone is fine.
     
    “What is it then?”
     
     

63.
     
    She reaches behind her seat
    pulling up a box
    two-feet deep.
    She huffs a bit at the
    awkward maneuver, but when it’s
    squarely between us
    she looks at me
    with a smile.
    A bright-eyed
    and wide
    smile.
     
    “What is it?” I ask self-consciously.
     
    “It’s your journals. From your old apartment. At least a dozen of them.”
     
    You know that saying about
    losing your breath?
    It’s real.
    The air went straight out of me.
    The box right here
    contains relics
    I don’t know if I want to see.
    Want to know
    because I’m afraid if I remember
    I’ll never grow
    or change from the girl I was then.
    I’ll get caught up in the
    tailspin
    of self-preservation.
     
    “Well, don’t you want to see them?”
     
    Terry takes off the lid
    and somehow the box
    holds
    the cigarette smoke
    of all the
    homes
    I lived in.
    It holds the
    sweaty stale smell
    of
    the
    Hell
    I lived in.
    It holds the
    rotting broken heart
    of
    disregard
    ed
    dreams
    I lived in.
     
    I can’t do this.
    I can’t do this.
    I can’t do this.
     
    I shake my head
    fast
    wanting the wave of nausea
    coming over me
    to pass.
    I am not
    ready
    or prepared
    or “self aware”
    enough
    to do this.
     
    I can’t do this.
     
    “Louisa, what’s wrong? I thought you’d be so pleased.”
     
    I open the door just in time to
    vomit the
    visions
    I
    had
    just
    inhaled,
    out.
     
     

64.
     
    I go to my room when we get home.
    Fall on the bed
    stuffing the scent of the
    pillow
    into my head.
     
    I felt sick
    on the drive home.
    Ms. F wanted to know what happened.
    If I was feeling okay?
    I left Terry’s car so fast
    in such a hurry.
    The two of them
    stood outside in the freezing air
    talking for what seemed
    like an eternity
    at least to me
    about me
    and what I was afraid
    to see.
     
    Terry handed Ms. F the box.
    She put it in her trunk
    slammed it shut
    drove it home
    for what?
    So I can go back through
    my childhood memories
    see
    the words I wrote on a page
    the only way I knew
    to express my rage.
    And now, two years later
    the box shows up.
    Well guess what?
    Terry and Ms. Francine:
    I’m grown up .
    I don’t need those remnants of my past
    to point out the parts that I lack.
    A mom and a dad together forever.
    I just have a dad who
    kissed me
    held me
    grabbed me
    too tight.
     
    I don’t need to read my journals to
    remind myself of those
    memories.
    More like
    horror dreams .
    Played out
    in
    real life.
     

65.
     
    Forget the headphones
    the music’s cranked up loud.
    I text Jess:
    Come over, I’m Bored.
    She’s busy.
    Markus sang her a song on his guitar.
    And now they’re puppy dogs and roses
    once more.
    God.
    Alone on a Saturday night.
    I need a
    fucking life.
     
    If I go downstairs
    my night will consist of listening to
    Ms. F and Margot
    laugh at inside jokes
    constantly causing me to
    remember
    my solidarity.
     
    Fuck it.
    What else am I going to do?
    Shampoo
    my hair
    for the third time today?
    What a fucking cliché.
     
     

66.
     
    At the kitchen table
    they have a SCRABBLE board
    spread with tiles
    letters
    forming
    words.
    When I walk in they look at me,
    expectantly.
    Did I need something?
    Was I hungry?
    Would I like a cup of tea?
    Did