Chapter 3 Open doors. Closed hearts

My best friend Vicky was all I had left.

After walking out of my house that night-my home, once filled with Jason's laughter, now poisoned by Solace's betrayal-I had nowhere else to go. I could have checked into a hotel, but I didn't want to be alone with my thoughts. Not then. Not with my son's pictures still flashing through my mind and the taste of Solace and Cleo's kiss still burning on my tongue.

So, I went to Vicky's.

She opened the door without hesitation. No questions. No judgement. Just arms. Warm, open arms that wrapped around me like I wasn't the broken shell of myself. And for a moment, just a brief second, I let myself believe I was safe.

"I don't even know what I'm doing," I said, my voice barely making it past my throat.

Vicky stroked my back as we sat on her couch that night, her apartment dim and quiet, smelling of lavender and red wine. "You don't have to know what you're doing," she whispered. "You just have to breathe. One breath at a time, El."

I cried on her shoulder until I slept off, and when I woke the next morning, she had already made tea. Mint and ginger. My favorite. Like she remembered every little thing.

That morning, she told me about a facility she went to after her brother died. A retreat, she called it. More than therapy, less than a hospital. Just a quiet place outside the city where broken people go to gather what's left of themselves.

"I know it sounds dramatic," she said, squeezing lemon into her mug. "But it really helped me. And I think it could help you too."

I didn't know if I wanted help. Honestly, I didn't even know if I deserved it. But something about the way she looked at me-like I was worth saving-made me say yes.

I left two days later.

It was a quiet place-trees taller than rooftops, soft gravel roads, early morning birds that sounded like lullabies. I didn't take my phone. I didn't want Solace to reach me, not that he would. I didn't want reminders. I just wanted to disappear into something that felt like peace.

The first few days were hard. Everything they asked us to do felt ridiculous. Group circles. Journaling. Talking to strangers about feelings I barely admitted to myself. But Vicky was right. Something started to shift after the first week.

I began to sleep again. Eat again. I even laughed once when a woman named Mel tripped during morning yoga and blamed the mat for having "trust issues."

I started writing letters-ones I never planned to send. To Jason. To myself. Even one to Solace. I wrote about the pain, the guilt, the way I still smelled chlorine on my skin even though the pool had been drained and covered. I wrote about how I wished time would freeze so I could stay in a world where Jason still existed.

Somewhere between week two and three, I woke up with a different kind of ache in my chest. Not just the kind that mourned. This one longed. Longed for closure. For a conversation. For the truth. Maybe even for forgiveness.

I told the therapists I needed a break-a short visit home to see Solace. They gave me a pass.

I don't even know what I expected. Maybe for him to break down in my arms. Maybe for us to cry together. Or maybe I just wanted to say goodbye properly. But I remember what I wore that day-a soft cream dress Jason picked out for my birthday two years ago. I remember the butterflies. The kind that made me feel like I was doing something brave.

I knocked twice on the door of the home we used to share.

There was a pause. Then shuffling. I stepped back, staring at the potted plant Jason and I once named "Fred." It was dying. Just like everything else.

Then the door opened.

And there she was.

Vicky.

In a robe.

Her hair messy, her eyes sleepy. My mouth went dry.

"Ella?" she said, like she'd seen a ghost.

I couldn't speak. I just stood there, eyes flicking past her shoulder. I didn't even have to ask.

Solace's voice floated from inside. "Babe, who's at the door?"

I think my heart actually stopped.

He stepped into view slowly, like the devil himself realized judgment day had come early.

I stared at them-at the two people who swore they were my safe places. At the woman who told me she'd blocked him, who cried with me on her couch, who sent me off to therapy like she cared. And him... the man who replaced our dead son's memory with a string of bodies.

Neither of them said a word.

The robe said enough.

My hands trembled as I stepped back.

"So this is it?" I whispered. "This is what support looks like?"

Vicky opened her mouth, probably to lie.

"Don't," I snapped. "Just don't."

I turned to leave, but then I stopped. My hands clenched into fists at my side.

"You told me you blocked him. You told me-" my voice cracked, the betrayal sinking deeper than anything I'd ever felt. "You told me to go fix myself while you warmed his bed."

Tears burned my eyes, but I blinked them back.

"I lost my son, Vicky. My son. And I came to you because you were the only friend I had left. You held me while I broke. And now... this?"

She tried to say something again.

"No," I said. "We're done. Both of you."

And with that, I walked away.

I didn't cry.

Not yet.

But something inside me closed that day. Something that will never open again.