Locked Heart 9

Freya’s POV

The California airport was louder than I remembered airports being—all echoing announcements and rolling suitcases and the constant hum of thousands of people moving through space with purpose and destination, with somewhere to be and someone waiting for them, and I stood there in the middle of the arrivals terminal with my single duffel bag clutched in white-knuckled hands and tried to remember how to breathe, how to exist in a crowded space without feeling like every person who looked at me could see straight through to the ugliness underneath, to the girl who had set a fire and gotten arrested and was now on probation in a new state because staying in Nevada meant staying in the same town where everyone knew what had happened—or thought they knew, thought they understood when really they had no idea what it felt like to be beaten and violated and so consumed by rage and terror that burning something down felt like the only way to make the screaming in your head stop.

You’re safe now. You’re in California. Nobody here knows you. Nobody here knows what happened. You can be anyone you want to be.

Except I couldn’t, not really, because the probation followed me here—the mandatory community service at the local hospital or dog shelter, the check-ins with a probation officer who would look at me with that mixture of pity and suspicion that all authority figures seemed to have when they dealt with teenage girls who had done something violent, who had crossed that line from victim to perpetrator in ways that made people uncomfortable because it disrupted their neat categories of who deserved sympathy and who deserved punishment. And I was both now—victim and criminal, survivor and arsonist, the girl who had been raped at a party and the girl who had burned that party down in the aftermath, and nobody except my parents seemed capable of holding both truths at the same time, of understanding that sometimes trauma makes you do things that don’t make sense to anyone who hasn’t lived through that particular kind of hell.

But Callie will understand. Callie always understood, even when we were kids and I couldn’t explain why I was upset or scared or angry. She just—she just knew. She saw me.

I scanned the crowd for her face—the face I hadn’t seen in person since we were twelve years old, since her family had moved from Nevada to California and left me behind with promises to stay in touch that we’d actually kept, that had sustained me through years of texts and video calls and the knowledge that somewhere out there was someone who knew me before everything got complicated, before boys and violence and legal consequences, someone who remembered the version of me that had been whole and happy and unburdened by the weight of trauma I now carried everywhere I went.

What if she doesn’t recognize me? What if six years has changed me too much, made me into someone she can’t connect with anymore? What if she sees me and realizes that the girl she knew is gone, replaced by this damaged, angry, broken version who can’t even walk through an airport without feeling like she’s going to fall apart?

The anxiety was building in my chest—that familiar tightness that made breathing difficult, that made my vision narrow and my hands shake and my heart race like I was running from something even though I was standing perfectly still. I forced myself to take a deep breath, to count to five the way the therapist my parents had made me see after the fire had taught me, to ground myself in the present moment instead of spiraling into panic about all the ways this could go wrong, all the ways I could fail at this fresh start before it even began.

You survived worse than this. You survived him. You survived the fire and the arrest and the trial and the sentencing. You can survive walking through an airport to meet your best friend.

And then I saw her—Callie, pushing through the crowd with her dark hair longer than it had been when we were kids, with her face more mature but still fundamentally the same, still recognizable as the girl who had been my partner in crime and my confidant and my safe person before life had gotten so impossibly complicated. She was scanning the crowd too, her eyes moving over faces with the kind of focused intensity that told me she was just as anxious about this reunion as I was, just as worried that six years and distance and everything I’d been through might have created a gap too wide to bridge.

But then our eyes met.

The recognition was instant and overwhelming—her face breaking into a smile so wide and genuine that I felt something in my chest crack open, felt tears spring to my eyes as she started moving toward me faster, pushing past people with muttered apologies until she was right there in front of me, close enough to touch, close enough that I could see the tears in her own eyes and the way her hands were reaching for me like she couldn’t quite believe I was real, like she needed physical confirmation that I was actually here after all this time.

“Freya,” she breathed, and then we were hugging—her arms coming around me tight and fierce and safe, her familiar scent of vanilla and something floral wrapping around me like a blanket, like coming home after being lost for too long. I buried my face in her shoulder and let myself cry, let the tears come in great heaving sobs that I’d been holding back for months, for years maybe, because there was something about being held by someone who knew you before the trauma, who remembered who you were when you were still innocent and whole, that made it safe to fall apart in ways you couldn’t with anyone else.

She’s here. She’s real. She still knows me. Still wants me here despite everything.

“I’ve got you,” Callie murmured against my hair, her voice thick with emotion. “I’ve got you, Frey. You’re safe now. You’re here and you’re safe and we’re going to figure this out together, okay? Whatever you need, whatever happens—we’re going to figure it out.”

Together. Not alone. Not carrying this by myself anymore.

I pulled back eventually—wiping at my face with shaking hands, trying to compose myself enough to function in this public space where people were definitely staring at the two girls having an emotional breakdown in the middle of the arrivals terminal. But Callie just smiled at me through her own tears and grabbed my duffel bag with one hand and my hand with the other, and then she was leading me through the crowd toward the exit, toward the parking garage, toward whatever came next in this new life I was trying to build from the ashes of everything that had burned down back in Nevada.

This is real. This is happening. I’m actually here, actually starting over, actually getting a chance to be someone other than the girl who got raped and set a fire and ruined her own life before it even really began.

The California sunshine was almost aggressive after the dim interior of the airport—bright and warm and so different from the desert heat of Nevada that I had to squint against it, had to let my eyes adjust to this new landscape that would be home now, that would be the backdrop for whatever version of myself I managed to become in the aftermath of everything that had happened. Callie led me to her car—a beat-up Honda that had clearly seen better days but that she patted affectionately as she unlocked it—and I climbed into the passenger seat with my duffel bag clutched on my lap like a security blanket, like if I held onto it tight enough I could hold onto some sense of control in a life that had felt completely out of control for longer than I cared to admit.

“So,” Callie said as she started the engine and pulled out of the parking space, her voice carefully casual in that way that told me she was trying not to overwhelm me with questions or concern or the weight of everything we needed to talk about eventually. “The apartment is about twenty minutes from here. It’s not huge but it’s got two bedrooms and the neighborhood is pretty safe and there’s a coffee shop on the corner that makes the best lattes you’ve ever had in your life. I think you’re going to love it.”

Home. She’s taking me home. To our home. The place where I’ll live and sleep and try to rebuild some semblance of a normal life.

“Thank you,” I said quietly, my voice still rough from crying. “For—for letting me come here. For giving me a place to stay. For not—” I had to stop, had to swallow past the lump in my throat. “For not giving up on me after everything that happened.”

Callie’s hand found mine across the center console, squeezed tight. “Freya, you’re my best friend. You’ve been my best friend since we were kids. There is nothing—nothing—that could make me give up on you. What happened to you was—” Her voice broke and she had to take a breath before continuing. “What he did to you was unforgivable. And what happened after, the fire—I understand why you did it. I understand that you were terrified and traumatized and not thinking clearly. And I’m so fucking angry that you’re the one who got punished for it, that you’re the one on probation while he just gets to walk around like he didn’t—”

She stopped herself, her jaw clenching, and I felt a surge of love for her so intense it almost hurt—love and gratitude and the overwhelming relief of being believed, of having someone in my corner who didn’t question whether I was telling the truth about what had happened in that room at that party, who didn’t suggest that maybe I had been asking for it or that maybe I had misunderstood his intentions or any of the other victim-blaming bullshit that people had thrown at me in the aftermath.

She believes me. She’s always believed me. Even when nobody else did, even when the police and the lawyers and half the people at school looked at me like I was lying or exaggerating or trying to get attention—Callie believed me.

“I’m going to make this work,” I said, meaning it with every fiber of my being. “The probation, the community service, college—I’m going to do everything right this time. I’m going to prove that I’m not just—that I’m more than what happened to me. More than the worst thing I’ve ever done.”

I have to believe that. Have to believe that I can be more than a victim and an arsonist, more than a cautionary tale about what happens when trauma makes you do something violent. Have to believe that there’s a version of me on the other side of this that’s worth fighting for.

Callie glanced at me with fierce pride in her eyes. “You’re already more than that, Frey. You’ve always been more than that. And anyone who can’t see it doesn’t deserve to know you.”

Maybe. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I just need to start believing it myself.

The apartment was exactly what Callie had described—small but cozy, with two bedrooms separated by a shared living space and kitchen, with windows that let in streams of golden California light, with furniture that was clearly secondhand but comfortable and lived-in in ways that made the space feel like home rather than just a place to sleep. Callie showed me to my room—the smaller of the two bedrooms but still bigger than what I’d had back in Nevada, with a bed already made up with soft blue sheets and a desk by the window where I could study and a closet that was empty and waiting to be filled with whatever new version of myself I decided to become.

This is mine. This space, this room, this chance to start over—it’s all mine.

I set my duffel bag down on the bed and looked around, trying to imagine what it would feel like to wake up here every morning, to exist in this space that held no memories of him or the party or the fire or any of the things I was trying to leave behind. It felt almost too good to be true—this clean slate, this opportunity to be someone other than the girl everyone back home knew as damaged goods, as the arsonist who had burned down a house party and sent three people to the hospital with burns that thankfully hadn’t been life-threatening but that had been serious enough to warrant criminal charges.

But you can’t actually leave it behind. The probation follows you. The trauma follows you. The memories follow you no matter how many miles you put between yourself and Nevada.

“Hey,” Callie said softly from the doorway, and I turned to find her watching me with concern and love in equal measure. “You okay? I know this is a lot. New place, new state, new everything. If you need time to just—to just be alone and process, I totally understand. No pressure to be social or okay or anything other than whatever you’re feeling right now.”

She gets it. She understands that I’m not okay, that I won’t be okay for a while, that healing isn’t linear and sometimes you need space to fall apart before you can start putting yourself back together.

“I think I just need to sleep,” I admitted, suddenly aware of how exhausted I was—bone-deep tired in ways that went beyond the physical, tired from carrying the weight of everything that had happened, tired from being strong and functional when all I wanted to do was curl up and disappear for a while. “The flight was—it was a lot. And everything before the flight was a lot. I just—I need to sleep.”

Callie nodded, understanding written all over her face. “Of course. Sleep as long as you need. I’ll be out here if you need anything, okay? And tomorrow we can talk about college registration and probation check-ins and all the practical stuff. But for now—just rest.”

Rest. When was the last time I actually rested? When was the last time I felt safe enough to close my eyes without worrying about what I might see when I did, without the nightmares pulling me back into that room at that party where he—

I pushed the thought away violently, refusing to let it take root, refusing to let him have any more space in my head than he’d already taken. “Thank you,” I said to Callie, meaning it for so much more than just the offer to let me sleep. “For everything. For being here. For being you.”

She smiled—that warm, genuine smile that had been my anchor since we were kids—and then she was gone, pulling the door closed behind her with a soft click that left me alone in this new room in this new place with nothing but my thoughts and my exhaustion and the faint hope that maybe, just maybe, I could build something worth living for out of the wreckage of everything I’d lost.

This is day one. Day one of the rest of your life. Day one of proving that you’re more than what happened to you, more than the worst thing you’ve ever done. Day one of becoming whoever you’re supposed to be on the other side of all this trauma and pain and legal consequences.

I lay down on the bed without bothering to change out of my travel clothes, without bothering to unpack my duffel bag or do any of the things I probably should have done to settle into this new space. I just—I just needed to close my eyes, needed to let the exhaustion pull me under, needed to escape into sleep where maybe I could find some temporary relief from the constant anxiety and hypervigilance and bone-deep fear that had become my default state of existence.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll start figuring out how to be a person again. Tomorrow I’ll register for classes and meet with my probation officer and start the community service that’s supposed to somehow make up for the fact that I burned down a house in a moment of trauma-induced rage. Tomorrow I’ll start building this new life.

But today—today I just need to survive. Need to make it through this first day in California without falling apart completely. Need to hold onto the fragile hope that brought me here in the first place.

And as I drifted off to sleep in that unfamiliar bed in that unfamiliar room in that unfamiliar state, I thought about Callie’s words—about how I was more than what had happened to me, more than the worst thing I’d ever done—and I tried to believe them, tried to hold onto them like a lifeline in the darkness that was always threatening to pull me under.

You can do this. You survived him. You survived the fire. You survived the arrest and the trial and the sentencing. You can survive this too. You can build something new. You can become someone new.

You have to.