"I made it to the end, I nearly paid the cost
I lost a lot of friends, I sacrificed a lot
I'd do it all again, 'cause I made it to the top
But I can't keep doubting myself anymore
No, no, I can't keep doubting myself, no"

- Mary J. Blige, "Doubt"

Chapter Thirteen

Normally, I'd argue I was already used to subpar sleeping hours. My job had extensive demands, with strict deadlines that kept me awake late into the night and woke me early in the morning. I was familiar with the heavy hold of fatigue, the tension that never dissipated, the sway of caffeine, but I wasn't used to struggling when I did get the chance to rest. As that changed... well, it'd be an understatement to say it made me cranky and overwrought. I felt like an insomniac. To my great chagrin and annoyance, I was seemingly incapable of getting good sleep anywhere but in a moving vehicle.

That night was as rough as every other. I only got a few hours of rest, mostly fitful half-awakenings and startled twitches, before I was left staring at the wall at five in the morning. However, I didn't get out of bed. I was content to remain wrapped in the blanket, a bundle of uncertainty and melancholy while taking in my surroundings. Unlike the other nights, I had a new environment to accept.

At least I had plenty of time to do it.

The main bedroom truly was nice; it was clean and tastefully decorated. Like I'd told Sterling, I hadn't expected a shack on the side of the road, but I also hadn't expected a standalone bathtub and a double sink.

I briefly slunk out of bed to open the curtains, finally able to see the view in the eager morning sun. The tree line was dense, thick with shades of green and arguing wildlife; birds chased and squawked at each other and I watched a squirrel boldly jump from a bough. I marveled at the unapologetic vibrancy of it all.

There was a whimsy that came with a forest like that, one of snails and frogs, mushrooms and magic. It felt as if a spell had been cast over every inch, leaving it untouched by time. I wouldn't have been surprised if every imprint of life could still be found, if every person that'd trekked through its foliage had been left immortalized in their journey. I could imagine figures roaming through the trees. I could believe in seeing figments of history that'd once traveled through on adventures long past. I could imagine a peace that didn't seem possible anywhere else but there.

But 'peace' didn't seem to match the situation I was in.

I wondered how many safehouses Greystone had. Their clientele ranged from politicians to celebrities, and it stood to reason some of the houses were a little nicer. Surely, though, not all of their safehouses were like this one. I assumed there had to be some 'normal' houses for the clientele who weren't rich or famous. Maybe there was a spectrum, I mused, where it went from shacks on the side of the road to larger, more upscale houses. I supposed I hadn't expected to be worthy enough, or in danger enough, for a house like this. I'd thought of myself as more of a 'lower-to-middle scale' kind of person, but I guess Sterling hadn't agreed. Or maybe it hadn't been up to him at all.

Mulling on this, my eyes slid around the room before landing on Rolo. He'd need to go out soon. I had no plans of leaving the house until Sterling was awake, for fear of triggering an alarm or tripwire or something, but Rolo's morning escapade would need to be sooner rather than later.

I was glad Rolo was there. The situation was lonely, but like always, I could count on my dog.

Rolo had been an "I'm just looking" turned "I'm not leaving this building without him" sort of situation. I'd originally been convinced I wouldn't have time for a dog, instead resigning myself to meander through the shelter and volunteer, but one look at him had been enough for me to decide differently. I had decided I'd find time. Hell, in that moment I'd decided I would do anything for that dog.

His collar was bright in the morning light filtering past the curtains; the vibrant red was in stark contrast to the rich brown tones of his fur. Kennedy had gotten him that collar. She'd presented it, squealing with excitement at her new "puppy nephew", when I'd first brought him home. Since then, Rolo had spent time at her house whenever I'd had to travel for work, and each time I'd had to pry him out of her arms to take him home.

Kennedy. What the hell am I going to tell Kennedy?

I'd promised to see her before I left, which was supposed to be that morning. We'd planned to meet for a going-away breakfast; perhaps drink a mimosa or two, devour some overpriced brioche French toast, and enjoy time together as I had one last taste of California dining.

But I didn't even have my phone to call and cancel.

I hadn't seen her since the party on Friday. We'd texted and shared a few brief phone calls, but despite her repeatedly reaching out, I'd been unable to face her. I'd briefly explained I was staying to help for an extra week, but I hadn't gone into detail. I hadn't known how to talk to her about it. I hadn't known how to talk to Oliver, either, but I especially hadn't known how to talk to Kennedy.

She'd been at that party, too. It was reasonable to think she was struggling, just as I was. Guilt reminded me of that possibility every time I closed my eyes. I felt somehow, someway, it was my fault. If I hadn't invited her, if I'd just sucked it up and gone alone, she would've seen it on the news—but only on the news. Instead, I'd invited her, and something terrible had happened.

Rationally, I knew I wasn't the one with the gun. I'd only wanted a night out with her. I hadn't wanted what'd happened that night to happen. I also knew she wouldn't want me to feel so awful... but I did. I felt guilty, and I avoided those negative feelings by avoiding her. A better friend than myself would've recognized she'd been through something traumatic too, and would've allowed for mutual support between us—but I was apparently a real shitty friend.

One with no idea what happens next. When this is over, do I go straight to D.C.? Wait, am I even going to D.C.?

The panic I'd managed to choke down the day before resurged, constricting my airways; in my tired haze, I'd forgotten I likely didn't have a job anymore. It'd be naïve to think I could ask Ambassador Baros to hold my position on his team. He had a job that needed to be done, and I was in a situation with no foreseeable resolution. It could be days, weeks, months.

I couldn't just call Baros and say 'Hey, remember how you hired me and asked me to start on Monday? Yeah, I'm going to need an extension of undetermined length, so if you could just figure it out and hold my position, that'd be great, thanks'.

That wasn't how it worked.

I'd sacrificed everything for this—and I'd probably just lost everything, before I even got it.

I shot out of bed as bile pooled in my throat, rushing to the bathroom. With every heave, I remembered the nights I'd said no to friends, the nights I'd said no when asked out. I remembered every time I'd told myself it'd all be worth it in the future—could I say that it was now?

I'd put so much weight and every single ounce of happiness into a future I'd finally held in my hands. I'd only been a baby step away... and then I'd tripped and lost everything. The broken shards of my shattered dream stabbed my chest as I laid among their remains. I knew people would say 'it's just a job, there are other ones out there', but the truth was there weren't—not like that one. The opportunities Baros offered were so few and far between, and there was no telling when another would arise, or if another would show up at all. It might not matter even if one did. Pretty soon, a newer, shinier face would come along, and I'd never get back my edge. I'd be dull. Old news. A washed-out wannabe.

It'd probably be some Ivy League, all-American bonehead riding daddy's money and influence that'd get my place, I thought bitterly. They'd get what I'd bled for. How many times had I been forced to prove myself to them? To prove I could do it?

And they were right all along. I couldn't do it.

My pity party reached full swing as I clung to the side of the bathtub, but it was time to take Rolo out. He'd been impatiently waiting by the bathroom door, huffing and puffing as his shadow flickered across the bottom. He wasn't used to being locked away from me. Perks of life with just the two of us; there was rarely a closed door in my apartment.

Brushing the nasty, acidic taste out of my mouth and splashing water on my face was as far as I was willing to go. I didn't want to look in the mirror. It didn't matter what I looked like, and I couldn't get myself to give a damn, anyway. All I could do was hope I'd finished spilling my guts.

From half a can of hairspray and pencil skirts, to bags under my eyes and t-shirts. I fell from grace and hit every rock on the way down, huh?

Digging through my bag where I'd stuffed a Ziploc bag of dog food, my hand brushed against a small velvet pouch. It held a small diamond necklace—a graduation present from my parents, gifted with an "I'm proud of you" and everything. The necklace held memories of pride and encouragement; I'd kept it with me after deeming the jewelry too precious to entrust with movers.

"You're a Woodsen. Show them what that means," my dad had said. "Show them it doesn't matter if you're one of the Kennedys, or the Roosevelts, or anyone else. What matters is if you have the will and drive to succeed."

His words burned as I remembered them, even more so than the bad taste in my mouth. They raced through my every neuron, filling me with shame and pride, because a Woodsen didn't freak out.

But that was all I'd been doing lately.

This is not who I am. I'm a Woodsen. I've been ruled by fear for the past week—but enough is enough. I can't let myself be guided by panic.

Where was the strong, independent woman who'd clawed her way up a male-dominated field, particularly one based on an imbalanced patriarchal system? Where was the woman who'd decided she could be both feminine and powerful? The one who'd made eye contact and returned every firm handshake? The one who'd made plenty of others uncomfortable with her knowledge and confidence, or uneasy when she'd redefined her 'place'? The one who'd cut off every insufferable fool trying to explain a topic she knew way more about?

She's right here.

Clasping the necklace on my neck and digging out a less-ratty shirt, I retreated back to the bathroom.

She doesn't let herself give up.

I looked exhausted. I was, but that hadn't stopped me before, and it wouldn't stop me then. I'd pull myself together.

I didn't have very much to choose from when it came to clothes. I'd been under the assumption I'd soon be driving across the country, and I'd packed accordingly. Still, I had the few nice items I'd worn over the past week—the items originally packed in case the movers were delayed when I arrived East. It was only a pair of jeans and a summer top, but it made me feel more put together. More composed. I tried to brush out the knots in my hair, but eventually gave up, doing a haphazard ponytail instead. There was only so much I could do; I wasn't a miracle worker.

When I was done, a hint of the old Avery peeked out.

In truth, I'd let myself fall apart over the past week, but it was time to get it together. My first experience with guns, security threats, and true fear had been rough—it'd thrown me for one hell of a loop. But that was okay, because the dark age was over. It was time to stand back up and force myself into the light.

It was time to figure my shit out.

I'd look to the women I admired: Marie Curie, Malala Yousafzai, Ruth Bader Ginsburg, Sojourner Truth, Amelia Earhart, and so many others.

I'd be the strong woman I was.

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- H