I didn’t like talking about my feelings. I got angry. I hit stuff. Then I’d get in trouble and have to go live with a new family.

Talking about feelings was bad for me.

“They can help you if you let them,” Julie said and I rolled my eyes again.

“I don’t want to go!” I yelled, pounding my fist into the seat.

“You’ve got a lot of anger, Ellie. I just want to know how to help you.”

“Shut up!” I screamed, smacking my forehead against the window hard enough to bruise.

“Don’t do that, Ellie!” Julie scolded as I hit my head against the window again.

It really hurt. I was mad. And upset. I wanted to cry. And yell. And hurt myself.

I started smacking my head with my hand. The sting hurt but I couldn’t stop.

“Shut up and take me back!” I demanded, hitting myself harder.

Suddenly Julie stopped the car and got out. I was yelling and hitting myself.

Then she was pulling on my arms and holding my hands. I struggled against her. I tried to bite her but couldn’t.

I spit in her face and got one of my hands free. I pulled on her hair hard.

Julie didn’t hit me. She didn’t yell. She held my hands in her hers as I fought against her.

“Shh. It’s okay, Ellie,” she said quietly.

I stopped fighting against her.

Suddenly I was really, really tired. I just wanted to go to sleep.

“Don’t make me go, Julie,” I said. My head hurt.

“Don’t you see, Ellie, if you ever want to find a family, you can’t act like this. You can’t hit and yell and scream. We have to figure out a way to make you less angry.”

“I’ll never have a family. No one wants me,” I said and I didn’t cry. I never cried. It was only the truth.

No one wanted me.

And they never would.

**

The first time I remember being told I had Reactive Attachment Disorder (or RAD if you’re too lazy to say the whole thing), it didn’t mean shit.

I was an angry nine-year-old kid with a boatload of issues and not enough people invested in caring about the whys.

Sure, it explained to the few adults in my life the reasons why I reacted so violently. Why when I became upset I chose to hit and kick my foster parents. Or why I would urinate on the carpet in defiance over having TV time taken away.

Julie and my foster parents were told that I was unable to empathize. I didn’t possess that important chemical makeup that made it possible for me to understand and identify with the feelings of others. As a result I didn’t think anything of hurting others. I kept them at arm’s length. I refused to emotionally attach with anyone.

Friendships were non-existent. Parental attachment impossible.

I was unloved and in return I had lost the ability to feel anything other than anger and rage.

I was a fucked up kid that grew into a fucked up adult.

Was it any wonder that I had ended up in juvie at the age of sixteen?

Was it any wonder that I slept with most of the boys in my grade by the time I had developed boobs?

I had been an emotional void. Unable to care about anything or anyone.

It was a lonely, miserable existence.

So how was it that a girl with deep, agonizing scars on her psyche was able to open herself up to an awkward, socially inept boy?

Because Flynn had scars of his own. And one messed up person recognized the emotional damage in others. The carnage was like a beacon.

Calling me home.

It made a crazy sort of sense that Flynn Hendrick became the only person able to travel the complicated, dangerous path of Ellie McCallum’s emotional minefield.

We got each other in a way that others never had. I knew that getting close was equally hard for Flynn but for very different reasons.

And even though we had made this commitment to each other, and even though I had come back to Wellston for the sole purpose of being with him, it didn’t erase the awkward unease I felt in those first few days as we attempted to live together for the first time.

I woke up in Flynn’s bed the morning after coming home feeling extremely out of place. My eyes pried open and fixated on a spot on the ceiling. A tiny discolored stain that stood out against the white paint.

Huh. I was surprised Flynn hadn’t fixed that already. Maybe I should say something. Or should I paint it? He said it was my house too now. But did that mean I could paint the stain on the ceiling?

I pulled the blanket up to my chin and lay still, unmoving on my side of the bed. I was pushed to the very edge of the mattress. My left butt cheek hung over the side and my leg was precariously balanced. Flynn liked his space when he slept. He insisted on claiming most of the pillows for himself and apparently liked at least a foot between us.

We had obviously shared a bed in the past and honestly, I had never thought twice about his unusual bedtime habits before. But now that we were officially living together I took notice of the fact that he was very particular about the type of sheets that were on the bed. I observed the way he stacked his pillow for maximum neck comfort.

He had an unopened bottle of water and a box of tissues on his bedside table just within reach. When I had gone to grab a tissue before going to sleep last night, I was told in no uncertain terms that I had to use the tissues in the bathroom.

I hadn’t bothered to ask why I couldn’t use the ones two feet away. I knew the reason. Because Flynn liked things how he liked them. It didn’t matter if I was there or not.

Flynn wasn’t in bed. I was alone. I was hit by an inexplicable sense of hurt about him leaving me by myself on my first morning in his home.