Two years after a horrible accident, Kinsley's determined to make it through vet school, but she didn't expect to meet country boy Noel McLean who's just as mysterious as he is charming.
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Kinsley Hastings suffers from PTSD. After surviving a fata...
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Kinsley
Two days before I'm set to board a flight to Winnipeg, I'm in the laundry room washing my bedding. It's in the basement of my residential building. I venture here at least once a week.
Any person would find hanging out in a public laundromat boring. I like it, though. Aside from the campus library, the laundromat is one of the quieter places. The whirring of the machines is soft, and the space is warm. Much warmer than my dorm room. Tristan likes to keep it cool.
We had our first row over the temperature, a week or two after she broke Cole's heart. Tristan prefers keeping the room cold and piling up on the blankets. I prefer the room to be above average. After our petty argument, we came to an agreement. The room is warmer than before. However, I still can't warm up. I'm always wrapped in a thick blanket and wearing fuzzy socks. Which is why I love coming here. The heat combined with the smell of laundry detergent is heaven.
Speaking of Cole... I've been meaning to ask how he's doing. Finding him is difficult, though. With finals, I've had no time for outings or side conversations.
After loading my sopping wet bedding into the dryer. I sit down on one of the beanbag chairs. There's an assortment of them in the far corner, next to a mini-fridge that contains small water bottles.
Tonight is a beautiful night. I'm the only one down here, giving me private space to read. It's a young adult fantasy novel.
Before the accident, I never partook in reading young adult novels. Ones that were based on made-up worlds and concepts seemed improper. Now, they're my source of oxygen. Books that have no ties to reality are my drug. They make me forget everything. Books are the beholders of pure magic. They have the power to pull you into another world. Books paint pictures in your mind. They are the art of escapism.
I'm halfway through chapter eleven when I hear footsteps echoing down the concrete stairs.
I glance over my shoulder. There's a shadow on the wall. My stomach muscles clench. People who saunter into the laundry room aren't problematic. This is a public place. I expect them. However, I do mind when they try to talk to me while I'm reading a book. I hope this person is an introvert.
I turn back to my paperback book, forcing my mind back into reading mode. Not paying attention to people repels them.
My intuitive actions work.
Until I hear glass shatter across the floor.
The book slips from my hands as the chilling noise echoes in my ears. I squeeze my eyes shut and cover my ears with my hands.
Nononono this can't happen right now.
Panic attacks are another side effect of PTSD. They've only gotten worse over the years. Grandma says it's because I haven't completely dealt with everything. I disagree. I've accepted the loss and grieved over it.
