Open Your Heart (Kings Grove #4) - Delancey Stewart Page 0,22

mastered some kind of guru-level passivity right here in Kings Grove. “Put aside your anger and frustration,” my yoga teacher used to say in her soothing voice. “And focus on the energy that comes with calm, with peace.” Dad had mastered his calm energy.

I, on the other hand, had gotten home full of all kinds of energy, and none of it was even close to calm.

I changed out of my work clothes and pulled on leggings and a sports bra, then proceeded to bound up and down the stairs forty or fifty times, trying to wear out the anger inside me. Why had he sent me away? Why hadn’t he visited me? Why hadn’t I ever gotten to come back to Kings Grove until now? What had gone on between him and my mom and why wouldn’t either of them just tell me?

Finally, I collapsed onto the sofa, sweat running down my face. I sat there for a long time, forcing my mind to still, forcing my anger to ebb back to a manageable level.

As night darkened the sky beyond my windows and made the air in the house feel close and alien, I shivered. This was the part of being alone I didn’t like, and it didn’t help that I was too frozen in my spot on the couch to run around turning on all the lights I usually put on at night. Darkness and loneliness combined with whatever long-shoved-away feelings seeing my father had stirred up and I began to worry I might never get up again, might just melt into an obscure puddle on this couch. There weren’t many people who’d notice at this point.

I’d hit a low point. I knew it, recognized it for what it was. I also knew these were the times I was vulnerable to my own negative thoughts and that things wouldn’t get better if I didn’t stand up and march forward. (Thank you yoga and therapy.) But I also knew there was a sense of comfort in the familiar misery, and sometimes it was hard to force myself out of it even if it seemed obvious that movement would make things better. The clock on the wall over the fireplace ticked toward eight o’clock. When it got there, I told myself, I’d stand up and find a path forward.

I stared at the clock’s face as my last three minutes of self-pity ebbed and flowed around me, and when the long hand hit twelve, I stood, feeling weak and uncertain. I made a circle of the room, turning on lights one at a time until the too-big space glowed with reassuring light. I switched the television on, smiling when I found Queer Eye, and set the volume low. I brewed a cup of herbal tea and settled on the floor next to the coffee table with my back against the couch.

This became my routine pretty much every night for a week, and as the days passed, filled with work and learning the ropes at the inn, I began to dread the evenings. I’d wander the house, drink tea, and occasionally stare out at the little fire pit in front of Cam’s, trying to keep myself from wandering out just for the company. And because I was attracted to him.

But a week of solitude was about all I could take, and one night when I’d exhausted my supply of Queer Eye episodes, I stood and walked to the window in the kitchen, peering out toward the little house behind mine. I could see the glow from Cam’s fire pit, and before I could think better of it, I shrugged on a big sweater and some boots and pushed out the front door. I was tired of feeling lonely and sorry for myself. Cam might not have invited me, exactly, but he had said he was there if I needed anything. And right now I needed company.

As soon as I was within the circular glow of Cam’s fire, I began to feel like rushing out here to alleviate my own loneliness might have been a mistake. His chin was low on his chest, his dark eyes fixed on the flames, and his mind might have been on a different planet entirely. He didn’t look up as I approached, even though I purposely shuffled my feet a bit as I neared, letting him know I was there. I doubted the guy carried a gun or anything, but he looked just dangerous enough in general that