Reclaiming the Sand(19)

No one will ever love you.

Those were harsh words for a child to hear. Especially one who had already been to hell.

And I never said anything to anyone about the way they treated me. I kept it buried deep inside me. I never cried. I never screamed. I never spoke.

Mostly because I went almost an entire year without saying anything.

My words had failed me. I had nothing to say. So I kept silent, lost in the world inside my head.

But smashed in between those memories were those of a young social worker with kind eyes and a soft voice who refused to give up on me. Julie had been my one and only constant in a chaotic, out of control life. She tried really hard to make up for the shitty hand I had been dealt, but she could only do so much.

I had seen how much it hurt her when my foster families couldn’t handle me anymore and invariably sent me back. I knew it broke her heart each and every time she had to pick me up, sometimes in the middle of the night, and take me to yet another home that didn’t want me.

I remembered the way she bit down on her lip to stop the tears from falling as I curled into a ball on her backseat, my stuffed dog, Clyde, tucked beneath my shirt. She hadn’t wanted me to see the grief on her face. But I had. Even if my own grief had bled out of me a long time ago.

She had tried to turn my life around. She got me counseling. She tried to coax me into sitting through support groups. She insisted that I get evaluation after evaluation to determine what exactly was wrong with me. To get answers to why I was unable to connect with anyone or anything. To find out if what was broken inside me could ever be fixed.

When I was seven, some therapist diagnosed me with Reactive Attachment Disorder brought on by a lack of nurturing and my traumatic past. My label did nothing to make me any more loveable or easier to deal with.

Even armed with the understanding of what made me the way I was, my foster families were never equipped to handle the angry, violent girl who had invaded their homes.

So I would have to leave. I never settled. I never allowed myself to get comfortable. Because I knew it would be over soon enough. Even the nice ones never lasted long.

My life had been a series of temporary situations.

But Julie continued to try. I’d give her that.

And I could still see the disappointment on her face when I was carted off to juvie six years ago. Her tears were the only ones that fell.

So now, even though I had outgrown her services years ago, she still insisted on “touching base” with me every few months. And living in a small town, we ran into each other a lot more than that.

It wasn’t a coincidence that she stopped by on my shifts at JAC’s, even though she lived and worked across town.

And she, more than most people, knew when I was bullshitting and evading. She sipped on her coffee, a brown lock of hair flopping in her face.

“You do. I can tell. I’m so glad!” she enthused and I knew a grilling session was imminent.

I rolled my eyes but didn’t deny her statement. What was the point? She was right.

“Are you going to take any more classes?” Julie asked, dumping more sugar into her coffee.

“Let’s just take one day at a time, okay?” I said watching her over the rim of my tea mug.

Julie was saying something. Her mouth was moving but I didn’t hear the sounds coming out. Because at that moment the bell tinkled above the door and I nonchalantly lifted my eyes toward the momentary distraction.

And froze.

I swear to f*cking god, was nowhere safe from Flynn Hendrick’s all too visible ghost?

He came inside, wiping sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. He walked slowly toward the cashier and then stopped, staring up at the menu boards. He stood there for at least five minutes, not noticing the fact that a line was forming behind him. He took his time. Deliberating carefully as though he were developing a plan for world peace as he stood there.

Finally he gave his order and then took out a wad of money from his pocket and meticulously laid it out on the counter, making sure to count out the exact amount so change wasn’t necessary.

I knew he was mumbling to himself, counting out loud, his fingers hovering above the coins. He would take as long as he needed to in order to get it right.

I knew this because I had seen him do it a hundred times before. I recognized his pattern and his routine as though I were watching a movie I had once memorized but had forgotten I knew so well.

“Ellie!” Julie snapped her fingers in front of my face, making me blink and forcing my eyes back to her.

“Did you hear anything I just said?” she asked me, smiling in bemusement. Only Julie Waterman could find my complete lack of manners endearing.

“Sorry, I’ve got to go.” I grabbed my bag and dropped some money on the table. I chanced a look at Flynn and saw that he was still counting out his money and the people behind him were getting angrier by the minute.

“Where are you going?” Julie asked, getting a concerned look on her face was reserved solely for me. She followed my not so subtle gaze to Flynn who had finally handed over his money and was tapping his fingers against the counter in a perfect, controlled rhythm.

That was new.

I had at one time been intimately familiar with his ticks. But this was one I hadn’t seen before.

But a lot can change in six years.

Julie frowned, the line between her eyebrows deepening and I watched her try to place the very good-looking, but extremely awkward man that had entirely too much of my attention.