Dear Bewildered Ex-Best Friend,
First, know that it doesn't matter how many times you reach out to me—I always try to answer every message, regardless of who sent it and if they've written in before. Consider me like your anonymous best friend; I'm always willing to lend an ear and provide as much help as I can.
Now, as for your ex-best friend . . . Wow, what a story. I'm sorry to hear about your high school experiences; facing humiliation is never fun, and it comes with a nice layer of betrayal when delivered by someone we once thought we could trust. That said, I can't say I'm surprised that your friend reached out to you, specifically.
Chances are, she trusted you implicitly before and even during high school, and never stopped caring, but rather made some (as you put it) "stupid decisions," and got too deep. For all we know, she woke up one morning in high school and asked herself, "Why am I doing this to someone I care about?" But, upon searching for a way out of the situation, realized she didn't even know where to start, and decided not to try at all.
Not the best decision, perhaps, but the adage of "everyone makes mistakes" is painfully true.
Moving on, let's look at those questions of yours.
1) As mentioned above, I think she's reaching out to you because at one point, you were her close friend and she trusted you with everything. Moreover, she probably has thought of you. As sad as it sounds, she may not have others she can trust, and—if she regrets the way she treated you, as I suspect she does—she's probably thought of you often.
2) As for how you should respond . . . that, Ex-Best Friend, is up to you. What does your heart or gut tell you? Do you feel as though you have the emotional resources to be there for her? Would you like a promise from her that she won't turn her back on you again? Ask yourself questions like these, and don't feel bad if the answer is "I can't." Being present as a "support" is difficult, and there is no shame in telling someone that you're not in the present state of mind to do so.
Also, I think there's a lot you can offer her (only if you're able and willing, of course). A listening ear, a kind smile, a word of encouragement—things like that seem simple, but go a long way, especially in times of trouble.
I'm sorry I can't give you a straight answer, but this one's up to you.
Good luck, and I hope all goes well!
XO,
The Ticker Tinkerer
Helen set her laptop down on the coffee table, groaning when her back proved to be stiff from lack of movement. Standing from the couch, she wiggled her sock-clad toes as best she could and stretched her arms above her head, holding the position for several beats before dropping her hands back to her sides.
A cursory glance of Pat's living room, lit by the dying light of the sun and warmed by the flickering flames of the fire in the hearth, made her smile. Her brand-new coat (that Pat bought for her that very day) was hanging on the back of one of the two lounge chairs, and a stack of now-wrapped baby presents were tucked in the far corner.
What really caught Helen's attention, however, was the sight of Ginger and Gilligan, curled around one another in one of Gilligan's square-shaped beds.
She and Pat had introduced the two cats only several hours before, and it had gone surprisingly well: Gilligan had welcomed Ginger and even played with Helen's cat for ten minutes before growing tired and flopping in the corner. Ginger had explored Pat's home for another hour or so, and then followed Gilligan's example and flopped down as close as she could to the other cat.
It was absolutely adorable, as far as Helen was concerned. Pat, meanwhile, had only said, "I hope they're not excessive with their PDA," before he'd gone out back to chop more wood for the fire. Helen knew he was relieved though; if their cats liked each other, after all, there would be no issues with Helen and Pat spending even more time with one another.
Passing the cats' slumbering forms one more gentle smile, Helen snagged a blanket off the couch and wrapped it around her shoulders like a shawl as she stepped towards the door settled at the rear of the living room that led to a quaint back porch.
One of her favorite things about Pat's house was its seclusion. Even though there were neighbors nearby and it was still in walking distance of the city, the woods in the back and scattered trees out front made her feel as though she was tucked away in a mountain home, safe from all danger.
Of course, that feeling of safety and warmth no doubt had something to do with the distinct smell of Pat—a mix of woodsmoke from his fires and the freshly baked bread he whipped up every few days—that permeated every surface in the house.
Oh yeah, she mused as she propped her elbows on the porch railing, watching Pat as he threw chopped logs into a wheelbarrow, his muscles flexing with each movement, I could get used to this.
Pat halted what he was doing, setting his hands on his hips and scouring the backyard, as though looking for anything he'd missed.
Helen took that moment to make her presence known. "You single, hot stuff?" she called, and then released a low wolf whistle.
Shoulders shaking with his laughter, Pat spun around and cocked up a single brow, his hair ruffled, and his brow dotted with perspiration even in the cold weather. "You look adorable," he called in response, his lips tilted in a cool smirk. "Miss me, sweetheart? It's only been an hour or two."
Turning up the dramatics, Helen slapped a hand against her forehead and leaned sideways. "Oh, I crave your presence! Who am I, without my hunky boyfriend to keep me warm? I've had to replace him with this flimsy blanket, and I won't be happy until he returns."
"'Hunky'?" he repeated skeptically, his brow wrinkled. "Are you hitting on me, Helena?"
"Depends; are you gonna come up here and snuggle with me?" The words were said coyly.
"Depends," he returned in the same manner, "are you gonna make some coffee?"
She couldn't smother her grin as she straightened up and tugged the blanket tighter around her shoulders. "Meet in the kitchen in five?"
"You've got a deal, gorgeous."
Helen laughed and ducked back inside the house before he could melt her heart further, her hurried steps causing the cats to wake and scatter (Ginger did, anyway—Gilligan only flopped onto his other side).
Once in the kitchen, Helen flipped on the Bluetooth speaker stationed by the stove, tugging her phone out of her jeans and tapping on her favorite playlist before turning to the coffee maker and drifting off into thought.
It was the weekend now, and had been several days since the file search that had ended in disappointment; Addy had confessed to Helen that she didn't think they would find it, and that Isaiah had more likely than not dropped it somewhere and then forgotten all about it. "I think he's allergic to paper," she'd told Helen dryly. "I'll have to check his medical files."
And, as unfortunate as the whole mess was, Helen had managed to keep busy, mainly with Patterson's help. Anderson had suggested much of the same thing when she'd gone to see him, but he'd also told her that it would be beneficial to set other, perhaps more important goals.
"When was the last time you drove with someone other than Patterson?" he'd asked her, and Helen hadn't been able to stop herself from blanching.
God, she hadn't driven with someone besides Pat since . . . well, since she'd met him and realized she could drive with him. The very thought of being in a car without him . . .
She shuddered at the thought. If Pat wasn't driving, there was no guarantee of safety; Pat loved her, and even before their relationship had changed, she'd known she was safe with him—his careful actions and kind smile had always told her that.
Anyone else . . . well, even the thought of driving with Addy sent her pulse racing, though the logical part of her mind was quick to point out the silliness of that idea. Addy would never intentionally try to harm her, of course, but she also wasn't as cautious when driving.
You'll have to get over it eventually, Helen scolded herself. You can't be like this forever and—
She was pulled out of her inner turmoil when a warmth engulfed her back and two muscled arms wrapped around her waist. "Hey, sweetheart," Patterson whispered, moving her dark hair out of the way and pressing a kiss against her neck, his neatly-trimmed beard tickling her skin. "You alright?"
Helen leaned back into his embrace, turning her nose into his chest and breathing him in. "Just thinking," she answered, her voice the same volume as his. "Can I ask you something?"
His fingers drifted past her makeshift shawl and just underneath her shirt, where he began to draw shapes over her stomach. "'Course you can."
"How long did it take for you to get over it? The accident, I mean."
A whoosh of breath left him in a silent sigh, ruffling her hair. "Well, I'll never forget it—just as you'll never forget Cecily—but I forgave the guy responsible and moved past the whole thing after about a year."
"A year?" That seemed daunting.
"Yes, but you can't compare your progress to mine." The words were said gently, but the weight behind them was significant. "Everyone works through things differently, Helena. Plus, it's all about small steps."
"Small steps . . ." she repeated thoughtfully, her mind drifting back to her earlier question about driving with someone other than Pat. Perhaps that was the next step in her healing. "Do you think I should try driving with someone else?"
She didn't have to see his face to know his brows were furrowed in consideration. "Do you think you're ready for that?"
"Yes," she replied instantly, before she thought about being in Addy's car again and faltered. "Maybe. I don't know."
Pat pulled back slightly, just enough so he could spin her around and scrutinize her carefully. "We can try something now, if you'd like."
Helen swallowed audibly, her fingers seeking his out and squeezing. "Like what?" Would he throw her in the car with someone else? Would he call Addy? Would she be able to handle it if he did call Addy?
Oh, God, I don't know.
Pat didn't respond, instead moving away from her entirely, their linked hands the only thing that kept Helen from standing still. He led her out the front door and to the driveway, where his SUV was waiting patiently.
"I want you to try something," he offered, leading her to the car.
Helen followed silently, until they walked past the passenger's side; when her eyes swiveled to the driver side door, she immediately dug her heels in and stopped walking.
"Pat," she croaked, her eyes wide as they swung to his. "What are you doing?"
He held her gaze, those blue eyes reflecting nothing but patience, compassion, and love. "I just want you to try something," he repeated calmly, moving the hand not clutching hers to her lower back. "I'd like you to sit in the driver's seat."
Before her heart could stop, he added, "I won't close the door or start the car, and I'll be holding your hand the entire time, alright? I'd just like you to try and sit in the seat for a minute."
Her throat was dry, her palms were sweaty, and she was surprised she hadn't passed out yet.
I don't want to do this, was her first conscious thought.
However, it was quickly followed by her heart's protest of, This is Pat. You know Pat. You love Pat. He's not trying to hurt you; he loves you, and he just wants to help you take the next step.
Right. Small steps.
And Anderson had wanted her to start setting goals and following through with them; what better time to try for progress than this moment, where she was with someone she trusted entirely?
"Okay," she consented after a short pause, her voice soft. "Okay."
Pat smiled encouragingly. "Good, sweetheart, that's good." He nudged her gently with the hand he'd set on her back, and she let him guide her to the door, her breaths shallow and quick.
When he swung the door open, she felt the world dip out of focus, and the only thing that brought her back were his soothing calls of her name.
"—en. Helena." She blinked the haze away and stared at his face, which was mere inched from her own. "You with me?" he asked when she continued to look at him blankly.
"I'm with you." Was it just her, or were her words a bit slurred? "M'scared, Pat."
He smiled again, but this one was colored with sadness. "I know, sweetheart. But you have to start somewhere, sometime, and right here, right now, might be right. If it truly is too much to handle, tell me, okay? I won't judge you, and it's fine if you're not ready for this today."
The words only served to make her more determined. She had to try.
It's just a seat, she reassured herself. It's just like sitting in the passenger seat, only this seat has a steering wheel, which drives the car, which can cause an accident, which could kill people, which is exactly what happened to—Okay, that's enough of that.
Shaking herself out of her thoughts, she gulped audibly, her eyes tracing over the driver's seat warily.
"You'll hold my hand?" she asked, even though they both knew he would.
Always patient, Pat replied, "I'll hold your hand, Helena." As if to prove his words, he squeezed the hand holding hers in a sign of reassurance.
"Okay," she murmured once more, "okay." On shaky legs, she climbed up and into the seat, her body taking some amount of comfort in the familiar feel of leather and the lingering scent of Pat's cologne.
"Good, sweetheart," he cooed, pulling his other hand up and stroking the back of her head. "There you go."
Her breathing began to grow choppy the longer she looked at the steering wheel, every line of stitching only serving to fuel her memories.
Gasoline, smoke, burning, aching, screaming, Cecily. Cecily, Cecily, Cecily, Cecilycecilycecilycecily—
"Helen." Pat's firm tone yanked her from painful memories, and she snapped her head to him, her eyes wide. "There you are," he muttered soothingly. "You're alright, Helena. You're fine." She wasn't sure when, but he'd moved both his hands to cup her face, and his thumbs were rubbing small circles over her skin.
"I'm fine?" She noted in the back of her mind that she sounded like a scared child, but she couldn't bring herself to really care.
"You're fine," Pat insisted, bending down to kiss her brow. "You're absolutely fine. Can you touch the steering wheel at all?"
She looked at it and shook her head fervently. "I don't want to. What if something—"
"Helen," he interrupted, ducking his head to hold her eyes once more. "What will happen? The car's not on, remember? What will happen?"
She considered his words and replied slowly, "The car's not on . . . nothing will happen?" Again, it was more of a question than a statement, but Pat's proud smile washed away her shame.
"That's right—nothing will happen. The car's not on, so it won't go anywhere. It's just like sitting in the passenger seat, really. Plus, it's my car, and you know my car."
Right. She knew Pat's car. She liked Pat's car.
With a shuddering breath, she drew her hands up and let them hover over the steering wheel for a moment, her senses on high alert to detect even the slightest change in . . . well, anything. Sparing Pat another glance, she saw his hopeful smile and—with her heart in her throat—placed her hands on the steering wheel, bracing herself for the noise of crunching metal and the jarring feel of rolling over the ground.
But nothing happened.
Helen looked to Patterson with wide eyes.
"I'm not moving?" she asked, just in case.
He shook his head to the negative. "No, sweetheart, you're not moving. You're right there. Right where I left you."
She managed a meek smile. "'Cause you'd never let me get away."
His own grin turned roguish. "That's right; I've caught you, and I intend to keep you, Helena."
Right. And I'm okay with that.