#anxiety feels

[yeahimwiththeband]

--> with the band chapter 16

Happy New Year, Izzy

warning: social anxiety, big time. jump scare. horror? for someone with anxiety, horror. 

A/N: izzy is THRIVING. and then she hears what her ex George has been up to. love on tour AU, angst!harry. 

word count: 5.7k

Izzy picked up her phone and sent yet another message to Lydia. She had been back home from the tour for just four days and had heard nothing from either her or Harry. Or anyone.

As soon as she sent it, her phone rang. Izzy put it to her ear right away.

“Harry?” Izzy asked hopefully.

Static on the other end.

“Izzy, it’s Lydia.” Lydia’s voice sounded shaky. Izzy was ecstatic and concerned at the same time.

“Oh my god, thank god,” Izzy said, “I’m so happy to hear your voice!” Izzy mouthed to Olivia: it’s Lydia! Olivia gave a tight smile, put the keys back in Izzy’s hand, and left the room.

“Izzy,” Lydia said, steadying her voice. “I have something to tell you...George and I are together.”

“George… Do you mean Mitch?” Izzy asked desperately. 

“No.” 

“George from the tour George?”

“Yes.”

“You and George,” Izzy repeated. She wanted to make sure she was hearing correctly.

“Yes.”

“We got together after you and him broke up.”

“3 days ago. 3 days ago we broke up. And now you and George—“

“I’m sorry, I know it’s fast. I know it’s too fast. I’ve liked him for a while and you seemed so happy, but then you slept with Harry and it was obvious it wasn’t real between you two.”

“That’s fair,” Izzy said. She didn’t feel angry that they were together—she felt betrayed, betrayed at the lie. That her closest family member had liked the guy she dated for months, and not said a word. “How could you hide that from me, Lydia? That you liked him?”

“You needed him more than me.”

“That’s not for you to…” Izzy felt her anger bubble up into her voice, but she didn’t want to yell and have Lydia hang up. “I’m responsible for myself. I’m responsible for myself, and you’re responsible for yourself. You didn’t have to manage me that way. You should have said something.”

Silence on the other end.

“Were you… were you waiting for us to break up?”

“No, no. I meant it when I said I just wanted you to be happy.”

“I know,” Izzy said. She remembered their conversation on the beach. Lydia saying she was sorry.

“I tried to tell you, on the beach. I couldn’t do it. You were finally happy and thriving. You wouldn’t have stayed on the tour if you and George had broken up—you would have gone back home. It was the only way to keep you there and you wanted to be there so badly, instead of at home.”

Izzy took all this in. She felt her anger transfer somewhere else.

“Did George like you too, the whole time we were together?”

“No, no. I don’t think so. This is probably just a rebound,” Lydia said, laughing weakly. Her voice wasn’t believable.

“Why date someone I dated pretty seriously for months so quickly afterwards if it’s not even that serious for you? George just developed feelings over the last 3 days?”

“Maybe he used to have them, and then they went away when he met you. I sincerely believe that. When he met you, I think he found the answer to everything, and then it didn’t turn out like you thought - you said it wasn’t working. You said you weren’t happy.”

“Could you… is he there? Could you put him on the phone?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Izzy.”

“Maybe he shouldn’t be dating anybody right now. He’s running from something. He’s into some pretty hard stuff, Lydia—needle stuff. I saw him shooting something at that party. It’s not good. It’s not being a real artist. He’s just an addict. He needs help.”

“You don’t get—” Lydia started. “It’s different for him, for the band. They’re not regular people, Izzy, and it’s not normal life. It’s not supposed to be. And besides, he’s getting better.”

“I want you to get better too,” Izzy said. “Maybe the tour isn’t the best place for you either. I’m making a new life for myself here and it’s not what it was before. You could come home and we could—

“I’m not coming home, Izzy.”

Izzy paused. She felt like she had bungled it: she had a golden opportunity in the conversation to bring Lydia home, and she had failed. “You always can,” Izzy said.

“I know,” Lydia replied.

Izzy felt like she was back in the wreckage again and that this time she had found the whole black box. George and Lydia. George and Lydia?! George and Lydia. She remembered George pulling her out on stage at Inglewood in front of 10,000 people and telling them all that he was in love with her.

“When you said maybe he used to have them, that he maybe used to have feelings for you, what do you mean?”

Lydia ducked the question. “He was in love with you, Izzy, or the you that you let him see. His feelings for you were real.”

“Jess was right. My anxiety makes me blind. I didn’t see it, but that makes sense. Of course he liked you. But then why date me?”

“Because he really liked you. Honestly. He really, really did. The thing with Harry… it really killed his feelings, quickly. He said he could tell something was off in the last week, that you were maybe not feeling it…”

“Please don’t talk about me with him,” Izzy begged. “I can’t stand the thought of that.”

“Okay. Sorry.”

“You and George. I can’t wrap my mind around it. You couldn’t have waited, like, a week or something? It just makes the whole thing - everything I went through with him - seem fake, from his side.”

“You were the one that was faking it with him. His feelings were real. Your feelings were always somewhere else.”

“I am sorry about that, that I lied to him. It didn’t feel like I was lying… I really wanted it to all be good, and I didn’t want it to stop. It wasn’t a fake relationship, though, Lydia. A lot of the moments we had were very real. This is so fast.”

“You know how things are here, how chaotic it is.” Izzy remembered where Lydia was: out in California. Maybe calling her from the apartment she was supposed to share with George.

 “He needed a decision from me on whether or not I was going on with the tour to follow Jess or staying back with him. I had to decide fast, so Jess could find somebody else… Since you didn’t want to go on with Harry like I thought maybe you would.”

“It wasn’t cool of George to put you in that position, to try to start something up so quickly with you and have you quit your job like that.”

“I still have a job, Izzy - I’m still going to be helping him with his socials. Still working for Ryan.”

“Don’t even get me started on Ryan,” Izzy said.

“I don’t like him either.”

Izzy felt herself welling up all of a sudden. Her cousin wouldn’t budge, on anything. “I’m really worried about you,” Izzy said through tears. “I’m just really worried about you. You told me once at the beginning of the tour that all I had to be was honest, so that’s what I’m trying to do, even if I failed earlier with George. Here’s the truth: I should have left earlier. The tour… it’s so good, I know. That life is so beautiful and fun, but the drugs. Did you see what happened to Tara? And George is in so much trouble, and the drugs are causing the problem and are also the way that he runs from it. You just can’t do that stuff, Lydia. You don’t have to—you can still have so much fun out there without needing a bump.”

“You’re the one that ran,” Lydia said.

Izzy sighed.

“You’ve forgotten how good it is out here,” Lydia continued. “Come back. Come back to the beach. Harry will be here for more shows in January. Izzy, I know that you’re in love with him.” Izzy almost dropped the phone. “Don’t you see? Everything that is meant to happen is happening. Me and George, and you and Harry.”

Izzy put her hand up to her face. “It doesn’t feel like everything is working out,” Izzy said. “It feels like a fucking plane crash. I still don’t understand what happened. You’re not telling me everything.”

“I just want you to be happy, Izzy.”

“I just want you to be happy!”

“Come back out here,” Lydia repeated.

“Come home,” Izzy said.

“I love you. I’ll call again soon.”

“I love you too,” Izzy said. “Please be careful.”

Lydia hung up.

Izzy stared down at her phone, hoping and praying that she had dreamed the conversation somehow. That she would wake up. But no, it was real. George and Lydia. 

Izzy sat down in the middle of her floor. 

Tears started to fall down her cheeks. She felt volcanically angry at George and so, so worried about her cousin. The conversation ended so quickly, the opportunity to talk Lydia into doing something else just slipped away. Lydia hadn’t even sounded like herself: she normally asked questions and listened, instead of spewing advice. Izzy reprimanded herself for not listening better and asking more questions herself; maybe that would have helped Lydia see how insane and fast this was. The anger and anxiety climbed up Izzy’s body like fire, burning her scalp. Izzy put her face in her hands and sobbed. She wanted something to cut the feeling, to take the edge off—a bump, anything. But there was nothing to do but to cry. Who was she going to call to complain? Harry? Harry who hadn’t responded to any of her messages? She was crying about him, too. Her heart was broken. A bitter thought, one she thought she destroyed, resurfaced: Sometimes I think love is for other people. 

The next morning, Izzy skipped her first class at the community college. Noon rolled around and she went downstairs, happy to help her mom catch a break by taking over the register at the store. Sitting behind the counter, looking out at the familiar street past the mannequins, Izzy felt her old life pulling her in like quicksand. She felt numb. It all seemed too hard, all of a sudden, like it had before she went on the tour: trying to get a real job, trying to move out. She felt wounded and just wanted to hide back where it was safe. The store was easier and she felt her daydreams calling her; she could just put in her headphones now and drift away. Her thoughts darted back to that first night at the concert, dancing with Meg and Lydia. George slinging his arm around her shoulders in the green room. Waking up on the plane. Lying with Harry in the grass at the co-op under the wisteria. Climbing up on that streetlight. She could sit here and remember it forever. She checked her phone again. Still no message from Harry. Not one.

There was another possibility, too: she could run. The keys to a house or a hut or a piece of land in Italy were sitting upstairs in her room, a total surprise—an unexpected gift from the past. And Mrs. Shepherd wanted her to go. That means I should go, right? Izzy wanted to run. The smoke from the crash wasn’t clearing, it was getting thicker. She couldn't see at all. She hadn’t seen clearly for months, just like Jess said. How had she missed George and Lydia and whatever feelings and vibes there were? She wanted out. She thought about Lydia’s offer, fleeing back to California. What would she even do there? Sleep on Lydia and George’s couch, hang out at the studio, maybe OD and end up at the hospital like Tara? 

Izzy felt like she was melting into her chair behind the cash register where she had spent so much time. She was supposed to go to the plant nursery in the afternoon to sign her health insurance paperwork. This third option, between staying and running, now seemed impossible—the little plan she had made with Olivia seemed too hard: the new job, the new training and later, a new apartment.  

Izzy twisted around to the three-pane mirror and surveyed her slumped over, fragmented reflection. She thought about Mrs. Shepherd and her own grandmother, Ila. Moving to America, building a life piece by piece. She thought about her mom, fighting to keep everything together. Surviving, despite losing her mom and sister.

The jingle of the shop door opening brought Izzy out of her fog. Olivia stood at the threshold, dressed for her new job at the music store. She eyed Izzy up and down and her eyes went soft.

“I felt there was something going on with George and Lydia,” she said. “Not while you were together, but there are vibes. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

“It’s okay. It wasn’t your responsibility,” shrugged Izzy.

“Let’s go. You have your paperwork, and I have my first shift.”

“I’m feeling kind of tired,” Izzy said. “I think I’m coming down with something.”

“Let’s go,” Olivia said, more assertively than Izzy had ever heard her speak. Whatever twinge of anger Izzy felt at Olivia for holding information back faded away. Izzy stood up, switched the store sign to closed, and let Olivia march her to the nursery, where she felt like she could take deep breaths again. Izzy filled in her details, signed all the forms, and even had an impromptu training shift from the eccentric owner, Reedy, about the importance of spritzing the ferns hourly. The next day, she made it to her 8 AM class. The day after that, she did it again. Time seemed to speed up. One step followed another. After George posted the first photo of him and Lydia together, Izzy deleted Instagram from her phone. She worked and went to class. By the end of November, She had saved up almost $6,000 living at home and working. On Saturdays, she worked at the store, and to keep busy, on Sundays she added an extra shift at the nursery. The busyness dulled down the constant ringing in her head: is Lydia okay is Lydia okay is Lydia okay. The ringing had started soon after Izzy joined the tour, and grew deafening after that phone call. She and Lydia sent polite texts back and forth, so superficial that they broke Izzy’s heart. Olivia got an apartment, and when her roommate fell through in December, Izzy moved in. The apartment was above a dentist’s office near the community college: not glamorous at all. It definitely wasn’t the Riot Hyatt—but it was better, because it was all theirs. The rent was $1,200 per month, enough for them to split while still saving; they curtained off the living room to turn it into Izzy’s bedroom. They painted the walls blue and purple and had laughing fits while trying to pull off the painter’s tape off cleanly. Izzy put a record player in her room and had Meg and Lauren over to celebrate her new place, toasting with the cheapest red wine they could find in recycled jars over a table made of milk crates. Izzy loved working at the nursery and was learning more and more about all the species she had admired but couldn’t name before. She was doing well in her courses, but not letting her anxiety drive her into a perfectionist frenzy. For 2023, with Olivia’s encouragement, Izzy planned to sign up for landscape architecture courses. She daydreamed about the best parts of the tour, and tried not to ruminate on everything that went wrong. She remembered how Harry had embraced her even after he found out about her lack of experience—and Meg’s kind words, years ago: love is for you too, Izzy. 

It was a good thing that Izzy got a steep discount on plants at the nursery, because she had so many in her room she had trouble getting to her book collection sometimes: two giant Caladium Moonlights arched around them, leaves resting on the shelves. Olivia hung up her guitars in the living room and Izzy played sometimes in the evening. Olivia sometimes Facetimed with Lisa, Jess, and Tara. Izzy always found an excuse to go out. 

Olivia moved around the house in a light, easy way that Izzy admired; the musician was so relieved to be out from under Ryan’s thumb, out of the constant pressure of the live performances. Olivia played the guitar and worked on some new melodies some evenings. Izzy found herself smiling more often, her shoulders loosening up. She really admired Olivia, who was a lot more steely than she let on: she was strong. Olivia seemed like a fragile, floaty, spiritual person on the tour, but she was actually rock solid—otherwise, Izzy realized, she would have been totally crushed by the band. Copying Olivia’s example, Izzy painted a green and pink mural of abstract shapes on the wall opposite her bed, and had dragged in bookshelves they found on a curb in the snow and cleaned up. Just as she had done with her clothes in New York, she chose furniture that really felt like her; her new bedroom was colorful and warm, so different than the brown room she had escaped. The keys to the house in Italy collected dust on top of a small pile of books.

Izzy was doing what she had expected to do before the accident derailed her, but it was all so different than it might have been because of what she learned on the tour. One afternoon just before Christmas, Izzy sat in her new bed and looked out her windows, partially fogged up from all the humidity the plants created. She felt proud of herself. She hadn’t chosen to run or stay. Instead, she went with the third option: grow.

Still, sometimes Izzy felt a restlessness tugging on her sleeves, tickling her wrists and ankles. She knew what the feeling was. Lying in her bed alone at night, her mind always ran back to that voice, those eyes, those hands: Elisabetta. I know I’m not the only one. You’re so nice, and I hate that about you.

Suddenly, it was Christmas. She and Olivia would start new courses in the second week of January, so they had a bit of a break for the week between the 25th and New Years: Izzy only had a few shifts, and planned to spend a ton of time with Meg, who had finally earned some vacation time three months into her new gig.

On Christmas Day, the sky was grey but bright and Izzy went over to her parents’ first thing in the morning. She took the bus over to her parents’ apartment as a grown up for the first time—presents under her arm, side dish she made in her own oven carefully balanced in one hand. Her mom and dad had put up the tree, like every year, with lots of homemade decorations from the store’s most glittery fabric samples. Boxing Day Sale posters piled up in Izzy’s old room, which had become an office of sorts. And her mom seemed fine, happy—almost excited. Izzy felt grateful. Christmas at home was more beautiful than she remembered, because it no longer happened in a place she was trying to escape.

For the first time, Izzy didn’t notice presents under the Christmas with her name on them. After breakfast, her parents opened their gifts (a dark, soft bolt of silk Izzy had found at the thrift store, and a history of baseball book for her dad). Once the wrapping paper was cleared away, her mom slid a small piece of paper across the table to Izzy.

“Just for a week,” her mom said. “Do you think you and Meg would like to go? We have two tickets.”

Izzy unfolded the sheet of paper. On it, a flight itinerary to Sicily.“I can’t accept this, mom—it’s way too much.”

Her mom took Izzy’s hand and shook her head. She explained that she had been to Italy several times while her mother was still alive, and returning now was too painful for her.

“The store is doing well,” her dad said. “Don’t worry about us. This is what Ila would have wanted for you.”

Mrs. Shepherd’s words boomed in Izzy’s mind: Go! Dance! It wasn’t running if she was just going for a week, right?

…

Izzy knew she made the right choice when she saw the blue of the Mediterranean from the window of the plane. It was so pretty that it looked impossible, unreal. She had never been to Europe. Never been outside the country.

Two bus rides and one 2 mile walk later, Izzy, Meg, and Olivia came to a stop in a cloud of gold dust on a gravel road that wound along the sea. It was about 80 degrees, and the sun was bright and warm. Google Maps said they were at the house, but they only saw a heavy, sunken iron gate in the middle of a long, crumbling stone wall.

The land was scrubby and hard, tall brown grass and dark green groves of olives and figs and blood oranges. The air smelt like lemons and salt. Cactuses and palm trees stretched up behind the wall, dangling orange studded fruits over  at them—Ficodindia di San Cono, prickly pear, as Izzy had learned from a local influencer she had been following. This area of Sicily was usually pretty quiet, but it had been getting more and more popular; a bougie seaside resort had opened near the next town and some celebrities had even parked their yachts off the coast in the summer.

“It’s giving Under the Tuscan Sun,” Meg said. Izzy reached out and grabbed one of the fruits, and the three of them split it, while staring at the gate. They had walked two miles to get to the address. Izzy had the keys in her hands. She was so glad that Olivia and Meg decided to join her: Meg took the free flights as a “sorry I cost you your job” gift from Izzy, and Olivia had saved up enough to come on her own. Staying at the hostel helped, and everything in Sicily had been dirt cheap so far.

Olivia dropped her thrifted backpack. Meg did the same.

The gate was obviously rusted shut.

“We should probably go back into town and get someone,” Izzy said. As she was saying it, Olivia hopped over one of the crumbling stone walls.

“Get who?” Meg asked. “A blacksmith?”

Izzy heard an “oh my god” from the other side of the wall. 

“Remember the last time we broke in somewhere?” Meg asked with a smile.

“The first concert, Lydia shoving us through the backstage no access doors,” Izzy said. 

They looked at the gate.

Izzy unclipped her backpack, dropped it with a THUD, and hopped over. Meg followed her.

The house was small; stone, with a slate roof, and three windows upstairs over a centered door. But Izzy honestly barely noticed it: she was looking at the garden. Meg put her hands on her shoulders and they gazed at it in awe.

The house sank into a rolling field of yellow flowers that grew over tangled, knotty roots of old olive trees before disappearing over an edge with the blue sea behind it: the house was on a cliff overlooking the water. Each window had a flower box stuffed with purple anemones and bougainvillea vines of pink flowers climbed up the left side and covered the chimney.  Heavy aloe plants guarded the house on each corner and poppies grew out of the stone steps leading up to the door. A gardener lived here: not just a gardener, but some sort of plant genius. The house hadn’t been rented for at least ten years. It had been her great grandparents’, and her grandmother Ila had left it behind before she turned 20 for a new life.

Meg took the keys from Izzy’s hands and walked up to the house, Olivia following her, while Izzy walked around it to look at the ocean. A falling-down fence rooted in place by tall grasses held back the flowers from the cliff, which was a short drop down to a white sand beach. Steps worn by the seawater led up to a small opening in the fence; the gardener had planted cactuses on the outside of every step, like fence posts. The house was on a small cove a few miles from the nearest town, which Izzy could just barely see around the east corner. Izzy peered around the west corner of the cove; there was a sand path leading to a connected beach, revealing miles and miles of coast line dotted with pretty houses, some old and some new. Looking at the coastline, Izzy realized why her and Lydia’s mothers always took them to the beach. It’s because it was a place that their mothers’ loved. Izzy imagined Mrs. Shepherd and Ila as girls there at the house, hopping up and down the steps to go swimming.

Izzy carefully took off her shoes and socks and walked down the steps to the water, pausing on the last one. She couldn’t believe that nothing on Instagram had captured the ocean properly: the greens and blues were so much brighter in person. Her feet sank down and water pooled around them, pulling her in. Izzy hiked up her pants and walked into the water, soothing and cool. She laughed. She had so much. The restlessness and the ringing finally left her alone.

Izzy looked back up at the house, which had six windows on the back and a stone patio under olive trees, obviously designed for the view. Olivia waved from a window on the second floor.

“Everything that’s mean to happen is happening,” Olivia called down. Izzy had always wondered where Lydia learned that phrase.

“Izzy, it’s really pretty in here,” Meg said from a nearby window. “Black and white tile floor. Every window has a flower box.”

They ran some basic errands in the village using translator apps and Izzy’s broken Italian, getting the power hooked back up to the house ($1,400!), getting the water turned back on ($260!), getting a contractor to fix the gate and some of the broken stairs inside ($2,300!), and scheduling an inspection so it could be lived in again ($430!). That night, Izzy fell asleep on the bottom bunk in their hostel room as soon as her head hit the pillow. It was New Year’s Eve the next day and she felt like a new person.

Olivia and Meg had floated several ideas to end 2022: the hostel bar was having a party, in the little gap between houses where they had built a small library and put some tables and chairs. They could celebrate at the house, with candles. Or, there was a tarot card reader doing 2023 readings out of the shop next door (the language barrier was an issue). They weren’t permitted to go back up to the house while the inspection was being conducted, so over breakfast they traded ideas. There was a beautiful old mansion that someone had snapped just a few weeks ago; it had been in ruins, but it was being fixed up. It was famous for its huge music room / library, which looked like something out of Beauty and the Beast but better in the video—Italian, baroque marble insanity with peeling gold leaf and elaborate, curling wood carvings on the shelves and ceilings. They had four more days before they were going home, and they planned to see Noto (birth place of ice cream, Meg’s choice), Giardini de Balio (the most beautiful gardens in Sicily, Izzy’s choice), and Rockerilla (music venue famous across Europe, Olivia’s choice). Izzy hadn’t come up with a plan for the house yet. The upkeep costs were minimal and she didn’t know if she wanted to rent it out or what, but she knew fixing it up would help whatever she decided to do.

Olivia made an impassioned case for going to Rockerilla, apparently one of Jess’s favorite spots and well know among real artists—it was like an overseas, Italian hangout for international rock stars. They decided they would go on their last night, to celebrate before going home (best for last).

That day, they decided to go to the mansion with the library; it was a boring enough excursion before a big New Years night out. Izzy caked herself in sunscreen and they took a bus down the dusty road over a few hills to the west of the town, past the house by over an hour, on the other side of the island. Izzy was able to ask the driver to per favore, ferma and they hopped off in front of the mansion, alone on its own hill—it was expansive, and under construction. Metal construction fences encircled the property. It was quiet; no one was on site. Huge signs in Italian with clear do not enter icons glared down at them from the fences. 

Before Izzy could ask what they  should do, Olivia was through the fence and striding toward the door. 

“This is private property!” Izzy said.

“No one is here,” Olivia called over her shoulder. “We are calm. We are relaxed.”

Meg followed Olivia.

“Meg!” Izzy cried, gesturing to the signs.

"I don’t speak Italian,” said Meg.

Izzy took a breath and stomped after them. She had already broke and entered earlier that day, into her own home. Why not go two for two? 

The villa was massive; a single story in stone with colums supporting pointed archways. It was a pretty mishmash of styles, added too over the centuries. The windows were huge, and you could see the ocean peeking through from the other side. Olivia picked up the heavy metal knocker and let it slam against the door; they could hear the loud clang echo through the house. 

There was no response to the loud knock. No one was home. Izzy turned around to leave, and Olivia turned the heavy door knob until it clicked. The door opened. They were in. Meg walked in first. Izzy shot Olivia a skeptical look.

“Did you ever think we’d be here?” Olivia asked. “Could you have imagined this last summer?” Izzy shook her head, no. If she hadn’t gone on the tour, she absolutely wouldn’t be here now. She’d be in the store, behind the cash register, slowly dying inside. Izzy followed Meg inside. They were in a wide hallway in front of a small inner sanctum surrounded by columns and overgrown with ferns and shrubs. There was a ladder at one end of the hallway, and scaffolding up to the ceiling. Olivia had her phone out.

“It says it’s in the west wing, so… down there.”

“What if there’s someone here?” Izzy asked. But her concern was half hearted: the house was so beautiful, she didn’t really mind that they were breaking and entering. She was reminded a bit of the first time Lydia had shoved her and Meg through that backstage door.

They walked past a massive room, with huge wooden beams and a beautiful marble tiled floor, that was being painted. It was empty, except for a huge piano that looked new, pointed out toward the ocean. Everything else was covered in dust except the keys. None of the lights in the house were on. It was even brighter and hotter that day, but the house was cool and shadowed. Izzy took off her sunglasses and put them in her fanny pack.

“I think it’s through here,” called Olivia. She and Meg disappeared around a corner. Izzy had fallen behind them, transfixed by the piano.

She walked across the courtyard, into the library—she had found it. She could hear Olivia and Meg down the hall. Light streamed in from towering windows looking out over the ocean and the walls were lined with books, some too shiny to be that old. The ceiling had a blue and gold painting of a constellation, with ivy winding up toward it from a crack behind a huge, open stone fireplace. Izzy ran her hand along one of the tables, walking and taking in the ceiling painting. Her fingers hit on something and she stopped: she almost wiped a tea cup, saucer, and open book off the table. The tea cup was full with hot water, still steaming. Someone was home.

She heard a sharp intake of breath from outside. “Izzy?” She spun around. She could only see a silhouette against the ocean. Izzy briefly contemplated turning and running. She could run all the way back to town using anxiety alone as her fuel; that’s how much her anxiety had spiked, just hearing that voice. Her heart hammered in her ears. She walked toward the voice slowly, already knowing who it was, and seeing no other way out of the situation, though she kept trying to think of them.

When Izzy finally made it outside to the patio, the sun nearly blinded her. She blinked hard and her sunscreen ran into her eyes, so she had to drag up her shirt to dab them. It was so bright compared to the interior. The figure came into focus slowly.

“Harry,” she said, blinking the sting out of her eyes. “Hi.”

“Hello,” he replied. He wore a t-shirt over trousers with flip flops, and sunglasses that he had taken off to double check that it was really her, thousands of miles from home, standing on his patio.

“We were—we were in Italy for my family. Well, my family’s not here. Olivia made me come here. I didn’t know that anyone was home. I’m so sorry.” Izzy’s eyes burned. Strugs. 

“Your family is here?” Harry asked. His voice was open and kind, shockingly open and kind, Izzy thought, given that she had broken into his house. Is this his house? He extended a tissue toward her and she took it, hand shaking, dabbing her eyes so she could finally see straight. He came into brutal focus then: two curls coming down over his forehead, gold flecks in the green twinkling at her in the sun, and a smile on his lips almost too slight for Izzy to notice.

“My grandmother is from here,” Izzy stammered. “I inherited her house. I was here to look at the house, and Olivia said she wanted to come here to look at the library—it was listed as a tourist destination in this video. I wanted to see the gardens; I’m sort of obsessed with plants.”

“I know.”

“I had no idea… we thought it was abandoned.”

“Right,” Harry said. “I bought it a few months ago.”

“I thought you were back in California,” Izzy said, blushing deeply.

“I needed to clear my head.” Harry couldn’t look away from her.

They stood in awkward silence. Izzy couldn’t think of any social conventions to fall back on for when you break into the home of someone you once slept with, who said he was crazy in love with you and then ditched you after you said some terrible things to him. Nothing came to mind. She wanted to laugh—the whole situation was just so ridiculous. 

“Where’re you staying?” Harry asked, trying to help.

“We’re at the Ostello Estremamente Economico, about two hours away. We took the bus.” Hearing her speak Italian made Harry smile. He couldn’t help it.

“What are you doing for tonight, Izzy?”

chapter 17 -->

[scribefindegil]

being a writer leads to a genuinely helpful but also very stupid kind of mindfulness where you'll be having a sobbing breakdown or the worst anxiety attack of your life and think "okay, I really need to pay attention to how this feels. so I can incorporate it into my fanfiction."

[not-so-local-lesbian]

“It’s all in your head” where the FUCK else would it be?? My ass???

It’s a mental illness, boo. It’s supposed to be in my fucking head.

Thank you for your supposed life-altering revelation!! It was completely unnecessary, and I hope you trip over your big fucking clown shoes.

[reasonscomeseasonal]

Oh no it’s 4:15 which is almost 5 which is almost 6 which is almost 7 which is when my meeting starts so clearly I have run out of time to prepare or do anything other than sit in paralysis and watch the clock tick by, what do you mean this isn’t how normal people think

[bixels]

Learning that fans hated Applejack and called her "boring" is crazyyy to me because I genuinely, unironically believe AJ's the most complex character in the main six.

Backstory-wise, she was born into a family of famers/blue collar workers who helped found the town she lives in. She grew up a habitual liar until she had the bad habit traumatized outta her. She lost both her parents and was orphaned at a young age, having to step up as her baby sister's mother figure. She's the only person in the main gang who's experienced this level of loss and grief (A Royal Problem reveals that AJ dreams about memories of being held by her parents as a baby). She moved to Manhattan to live with her wealthy family members, only to realize she'll never fit in or be accepted, even amongst her own family. The earlier seasons imply she and her family had money problems too (In The Ticket Master, AJ wants to go to the gala to earn money to buy new farm equipment and afford hip surgery for her grandma).

Personality-wise, she's a total people-pleaser/steamroller (with an occasional savior complex) who places her self worth on her independence and usefulness for other people, causing her to become a complete workaholic. In Applebuck Season, AJ stops taking care of herself because of her obsessive responsibilities for others and becomes completely dysfunctional. In Apple Family Reunion, AJ has a tearful breakdown because in she thinks she dishonored her family and tarnished her reputation as a potential leader –– an expectation and anxiety that's directly tied to her deceased parents, as shown in the episode's ending scene. In The Last Roundup, AJ abandons her family and friends out of shame because believes she failed them by not earning 1st place in a rodeo competition. She completely spirals emotionally when she isn't able to fulfill her duties toward others. Her need to be the best manifests in intense pride and competitiveness when others challenge her. And when her pride's broken, she cowers and physically hides herself.

Moreover, it's strongly implied that AJ has a deep-seated anger. The comics explore her ranting outbursts more. EQG also obviously has AJ yelling at and insulting Rarity in a jealous fit just to hurt her feelings (with a line that I could write a whole dissection on). And I'm certain I read in a post somewhere that in a Gameloft event, AJ's negative traits are listed as anger.

Subtextually, a lot of these flaws and anxieties can be (retroactively) linked to her parents' death, forcing her to grow up too quickly to become the adult/caregiver of the family (especially after her big brother becomes semiverbal). Notice how throughout the series, she's constantly acting as the "mom friend" of the group (despite everything, she manages to be the most emotionally mature of the bunch). Notice how AJ'll switch to a quieter, calmer tone when her friends are panicking and use soothing prompts and questions to talk them through their emotions/problems; something she'd definitely pick up while raising a child. Same with her stoicism and reluctance at crying or releasing emotions (something Pinkie explicitly points out). She also had a childhood relationship with Rara (which, if you were to give a queer reading, could easy be interpreted as her first 'aha' crush), who eventually left her life. (Interestingly enough, AJ also has an angry outburst with Rara for the same exact reasons as with EQG Rarity; jealous, upset that someone else is using and changing her). It's not hard to imagine an AJ with separation anxiety stemming from her mother and childhood friend/crush leaving. I'm also not above reading into AJ's relationship with her little sister (Y'all ever think about how AB never got to know her parents, even though she shares her father's colors and her mother's curly hair?).

AJ's stubbornness is a symptom of growing up too quickly as well. Who else to play with your baby sister when your brother goes nonverbal (not to discount Big Mac's role in raising AB)? Who else to wake up in the middle of the night to care for your crying baby sister when your grandma needs her rest? When you need to be 100% all the time for your family, you tend to become hard-stuck with a sense of moral superiority. You know what's best because you have to be your best because if you're aren't your best, then everything'll inevitably fall apart and it'll be your fault. And if you don't know what's best –– if you've been wrong the whole time –– that means you haven't been your best, which means you've failed the people who rely on you, which means you can't fulfill your role in the family/society, which makes you worthless . We've seen time and time again how this compulsive need to be right for the sake of others becomes self-destructive (Apple Family Reunion, Sound of Silence, all competitions against RD). We've seen in The Last Roundup how, when no longer at her best, AJ would rather remove herself from her community than confront them because she no longer feels of use to them.

But I guess it is kinda weird that AJ has "masculine" traits and isn't interested in men at all. It's totally justified that an aggressively straight, misogynistic male fandom would characterize her as a "boring background character." /s

At the time of writing this, it's 4:46AM.

[diamondzart]

Work stuff 👀

[bamsara]

I think it would be nice to have the option to hide numbers on ao3. Make it where the 'kudos' and 'hits' number is author-viewable only, have an alternate option for when a list is sorted by such so people can read things based off their tags and preferences rather than see big number go brrrr

I speak as someone with popular fics, it doesn't have to be a requirement but like, an option? This could go for other websites too, tumblr notes and the like

[rainydays]

Lonely nights.

[doomedfromthewombfr]

I’m so tired of holding myself together when all I really want is to fall apart

[nova-rpv]

a redraw of the first drawing i posted here to celebrate the fact that ive been in tumblr for more than a whole year posting my shit and havent deleted my blog in panic yippee \:D/ (mushy rant in tags)

[yeahimwiththeband]

-> with the band chapter 15

mrs. shepherd

warning: new beginnings and personal growth.

A/N: izzy in the aftermath. i tried to write what i thought thriving with anxiety disorder would be like, based on some progress i’ve seen. major new year 2023 vibes. 

word count: 4.1k

Izzy lay down in her bed on her first night back at home with her phone against her stomach, the glass on her bare skin. She could hear her mom close up the store below. But Izzy’s mind was somewhere else.

I got out of a bad situation, Izzy said to herself. That was the most comfortable way for her to look at it: Tara’s overdose, George’s needle stuff, Harry not texting her back and leaving her there in the arena, plus all those horrible things he said. People pleaser, no job, not famous, terrible family, not an artist. Harry clearly didn’t respect her. Izzy left a bad situation. This explanation made sense; it was so easy.

Izzy turned the events of the last 72 hours over and over in her mind. 

I put things back the way they’re supposed to be; I wasn’t even supposed to be on that tour. But this explanation was even more sus. Izzy didn’t really believe it as she thought it. It was true that she wasn’t supposed to be there, but the tour was one of the few places she had ever felt at home as herself. It felt more at home to her than the room she lay in now, which felt like it didn’t belong to her anymore. The store was thriving without her there. Her parents didn’t need her as much as she thought. She was unanchored—the feeling was freeing, but lonely.

A guy who was (is?) genuinely in love with me told me about it and I immediately put as much distance between me and him as as I possibly could. Izzy knew that this explanation was true, and it hurt. She believed Harry when he said he was in love with her, despite what he did afterwards. She remembered Harry’s soft eyes and hard hands. Yeah, he was in love with her. She left. He left first—he left me in that arena, Izzy thought. But then you took a bus across the country, a mean voice (but honest) in her head said back. She checked her phone again. Nothing from Harry or Lydia. Every minute that went by chipped away at her belief in Harry’s love for her.

Am I in love with him? Izzy had been punching down this thought since she and Harry had slept together three nights ago. It was too painful to even consider, that someone she was in love with had left her by herself on a concrete floor—and then not sent a single text for three days. 

When Izzy woke up the next morning, California and Harry both seemed so far away. She thought about George and the apartment. Was he there now, alone? She thought about Harry and Jess, rehearsing together for the next dates. She checked her phone: still no reply from Harry.

She felt light. Heartbroken, but light. A giant burden was gone: the boulder had been destroyed. Not by fucking Harry, but by telling him about it and having him embrace it rather than run away. Her one major fatal flaw was gone. Now she just had to deal with the rest of them.

Before Izzy could check her messages again, Olivia burst into her room, already dressed for the day.

“This place is so cute! Your mom is amazing, she made us breakfast.”

Izzy remembered her breakfasts on the tour: toast off random trays in hotels, whatever she could scrounge for - usually an orange and some old coffee - at the co-ops. She smiled: this was so much better, and it was different this time, because Olivia was here. And she was different.

Izzy fought the urge to lie in bed and scroll, or open her laptop - the way all her bad days started, streaming time briefly punctured by other people, instead of the other way around, the way the tour had been. Hearing the past tense applied to the tour in her head hurt Izzy: she was thinking about what it had been. But it was still going on, just without her.

When Izzy arrived in the kitchen, the table was laid out as usual: brioche, butter, eggs, and coffee. Very Italian, just like her grandmother had made it. The eggs were an American concession for her dad. Olivia was eating as if she had been starved for months.

“Where’s dad?” Izzy asked, looking around—he wasn’t at the table on his phone, or in the living room watching TV as usual.

“At the store. Opening up for the day. He adjusted his work hours at his job.” Her mom sounded proud.

Izzy grabbed the chair in front of her and sat down quickly—she could have fallen over from shock. Her dad, helping out with the store? While her mom enjoyed a leisurely breakfast?

Between massive gulps of coffee, Olivia explained their plan for the day. Izzy’s mom didn’t blink. There was no covert guilt-trip about working in the store, no complaints about the amount of inventory to count or cleaning to do.

After cleaning up breakfast, she and Olivia took the bus to the local community college lugging giant tote bags stuffed with clothes. It was November, an odd time to enrol, but the college offered some shorter courses that they could start with. The campus was next to big box store on a highway and looked mostly concrete from the outside, with no visible entrance. It looked like a little like the outside of the Riot Hyatt, but there weren’t any rock stars or buzzing roadies here. Looking at the grey facade, Izzy felt a fleeting urge to pick up her phone, dial Lydia, apologize profusely and ask to come back.

Determined, Izzy found a side entrance, and found the admissions office through a pretty courtyard dotted with students reading on benches, with beautiful Japanese maples, bright red, and maple trees dropping bright yellow and orange leaves onto a green lawn. Izzy had only half a plan but she knew she had to do something. The woman behind the desk side-eyed all the gear they were carrying, but Izzy didn’t care. She didn’t want to work at the store anymore, and she wasn’t following a band around any more, staying on hotel and co-op couches. She enrolled in two short courses in something she’d always been interested in: botany, leaving the weekends free. Olivia got the details about a teaching course that started in January—she’d have to apply, but she still had a few days before the deadline. Oh my god, it was so much easier to do things with other people than it was alone, Izzy thought.

Izzy had never walked so much in her home town. It reminded her a bit of all the walking she did in New York, but instead of skyscrapers and stunning parks, they were walking past an endless parade of fast food joints on an ocean of asphalt. Finally, they got to the old town center.

They had to wait a few minutes outside the consignment store before it opened. Izzy’s fanny pack was bursting with brochures and notes about course codes and enrolment fees.

“Should we, like, donate part of it to a charity in his name?” Olivia asked.

“Maybe?” Izzy responded.

“I feel weird,” Olivia said.

“Me too,” Izzy added. “But I don’t need this stuff.”

A girl who looked 23 or 24, their age, dressed in the same mix of vintage that Izzy had picked up in New York, knelt down behind the double glass doors inside and unlocked them.

“I see Gucci,” she said, trying to contain her eagerness. “We may be able to buy some items up front.”  

Izzy felt a bit self-conscious laying out all the clothing on the store’s counter: the weird rubber crop top, the black dragon dress, one of the suitcases, and so many other clothes. Everything that didn’t feel like her. A hint of green caught her eye from the bottom of her bag: the green dress had made it into the jumble some how. She took it out and held it up. It was still smeared with a bit of red lipstick from where Lydia had drawn a heart.

“Oh, that’s so cute! We can definitely sell that,” the girl behind the counter said.

“Sorry,” Izzy said. “I think I’m going to keep that one.”

“I can take these and pay you when we sell,” she said, taking a bunch of the clothes. “And I can pay you for these up front: the suit case and the dress. We usually eBay high value items, because they don’t really sell in this neighbourhood.”

“What about the rest?” Izzy asked. There were four clothing items left on the counter, including the rubber crop top that she had hated so much.

“I won’t be able to sell those.” Izzy nodded. Not a surprise. She couldn’t believe how much George had paid for these things that were basically unwearable.

“I can do 3k for the suitcase and 400 for the dress,” the girl said nonchalantly.

“I guess that works,” Izzy said, trying to echo her tone before she lowered the price. Izzy didn’t want to negotiate. It was more money than she had ever seen at one time. They exchanged details and Izzy was surprised that the etransfer happened right then: $3,400 hit her account immediately.

With the money, a new thought punched through: another perspective on what happened. I lied. I lied to everyone. I broke George’s heart. Izzy remembered at that moment everything George had done right and wrong. The apartment, the drugs. Disappearing all the time, pulling her up on that streetlight. It had sometimes been right with him; it had been almost the happiest she had ever been, but he never really knew her. Izzy tried to remember when he had ever asked her a question about herself. And she hid plenty from him, too: it’s not like she had volunteered information.  You’re back on your bullshit, living for other people. Harry was right: Izzy had fallen back into that pattern with George. Helping him to hide herself. Izzy remembered the way that Jess had echoed Harry’s words, doubling their sting—it meant that they had talked about her, together. It meant that they were closer than she knew.

Olivia threw her bags on the counter and was able to offload most of it; they took the rest to a Salvation Army, but Izzy kept the green dress. Izzy couldn’t help but giggle at the prospect of the absurd rubber top selling for 99 cents to some teenager. A text from her mom wiped the smile off her face: I have some news for when you get home. Izzy winced—it was like old times, Izzy being independent, and her mom crashing in with some emergency.

“Come on,” Olivia said, “two more stops.”

The first stop was a music store with a series of desperate HELP WANTED signs in the window, obscuring most of the instruments they were trying to sell. WE HAVE BENEFITS! BE SURROUNDED BY THE MAGIC OF MUSIC! They had printed out their resumes. They were going to try old school job hunting to try to speed things up.

“Thank god for this supposed labor shortage,” Olivia said. She looked a bit nervous, the most tense Izzy had ever seen her - Olivia was always so serene. She took a deep breath before going in and Izzy waited outside—she heard a bit of Boyfriends when Olivia swung open the door. Harry was everywhere. It felt like he was haunting her. Memories from just a few nights ago bubbled up all of a sudden and Izzy realized she was in danger of crying outside the store. She could hear Harry’s words on the music: I know I’m not the only one. I’m in love with you. Elisabetta.

Izzy pressed her palms into her eyes and took a deep breath. She picked up her phone and called Meg, spilling out what she was feeling. Reproachful silence was the response from Meg.

“Just say it!” Izzy said. “Whatever you’re going to say, I can take it.”

“He’s probably thinking the same thing,” Meg cautioned. 

“He’s the one who left me in that arena! He’s the one that should call.”

“You’re the one with a boyfriend, as far as he knows. He’s probably waiting for you.”

Just then, Izzy heard a squeal from inside. She made a plan to visit Meg soon and they ended the call.

Olivia burst through the door (mercifully, the song was over by then).

“I got it!” Olivia said, throwing her arms around Izzy.

“Of course you did!”

“They’ve been looking for two months and the manager has had to be behind the counter like seven days a week. $14 an hour, four shifts a week.”

“Amazing! You can take classes around that.”  

“I could even move out and get a roommate on that.” Olivia exhaled. Relief flooded her face.  “Now I can go home. I can go home and say that I have a  plan.”

“That’s good,” Izzy said, though she felt her stomach knot at the prospect of losing her.

“In a few days,” Olivia added quickly. “Not today, don’t panic!”

Olivia pulled Izzy toward the plant nursery—she was almost running, fuelled by excitement. Before Izzy could do a deep breath, Olivia shoved her inside.

The nursery was about an hour walk from the store, and Izzy had been only a few times—but it was her favourite place in town, and the only nursery in driving distance. It was an old glass greenhouse surrounded by new plastic ones, all teeming with seedlings, plants, and tiny trees. When she stepped inside she had to take her coat off, it was so humid. She felt herself instantly relax, surrounded by so many green and growing things. The reception desk was empty, so Izzy wandered around a little bit and called out for someone, then wandered back. She could only hear plant leaves rustling and sprinklers turning off and on. Izzy fixed her hair and took her resume out of her bag. She rang the bell on the desk and waited. A few minutes later, a frantic man with huge glasses came flying out of the back greenhouse.

“Please, please, please tell me you’re here about a job,” he said. Izzy could only smile.

…

Izzy had a new job, part time at the nursery. Olivia had a new job, part time at the music store. Izzy would start three short community college courses: Deciduous Care 102: Identifying Health Concerns, Inspection Certification: Plant Quarantine and Nursery Inspection, and History 403: Arcadia—a History of Botany in the Romantic Era. The first two were practical, the last one she couldn’t resist. Izzy always felt calm when she was in nature. And right now, calm was what she needed. When she worked at the store, she had spent so many hours reading job postings and planning some other career, daydreaming about options. She had three career boards on Pinterest, all filled with ideas. But now she just wanted to do something. Daydreaming time was over.

When she got home, Izzy’s mom was waiting at the door with a thick envelope. Izzy had forgotten her ominous text.

“I’m sorry, Izzy,” she said. “Mrs. Shepherd has passed away.” Izzy wrapped her mom in a tight hug and Olivia made them tea upstairs.

“Peacefully, in her sleep,” she added. Izzy apologized to her mom and held both her hands in her own. Her closed up the store for the day, while Olivia retreated to her room.

“Izzy, I’m going to leave you this to read alone. Mrs. Shepherd was very generous—she gave me something, too. And something for Lydia. I might be able to do some repainting and even take a vacation,” she said. “It’ll help with retirement. She was a saver, you know. Well, except when it came to her clothes.” She wiped a tear away. Mrs. Shepherd was one of the most soft-handed people Izzy had ever met. Always kind. But tough when she needed to be. Holding her mom’s hands in her own, Izzy remembered Mrs. Shepherd’s tight grip on the night of that first concert, and her urgent words: Go! Dance! Izzy really owed Mrs. Shepherd everything. Izzy went to her room; she wanted to be alone, to run over all her memories with Mrs. Shepherd in her mind.

She Izzy was left in the silence of her room, wishing Lydia was there with her. She looked at the envelope. It was well worn, dog eared and yellowing at the edges, and still sealed. It was heavy—there was something she couldn’t identify at the bottom. She picked up her phone and texted Lydia, again: I know I was dishonest with your friend and I’m sorry. I’ve told George I’m sorry myself. I miss you and want to talk to you. Please call me.

Her phone rang, still in her hand. Izzy jumped, and scrambled to pick it up.

“Lydia! Finally. Are you okay? You’ve been scaring me—“

“Izzy.” That voice. It wasn’t Lydia.

“Harry,” Izzy replied. She sat down on the floor of her room.

“I’m sorry it took so long for me to call.”

“I’m really happy you called.”

“I wanted to tell you—I wanted to explain something. George and I—“

“I don’t really want to hear about George, Harry.”

“This is something you need to hear—it’s the truth, Izzy. What you said in the arena... I knew I had to tell you. Your story is wrong.”

Izzy waited.

“I met George for the first time when I was recording in London. He was backpacking—not backpacking, on an expensive holiday really—with some of his public school friends. He grew up pretty comfortable, yeah? I heard him play at a bar there, open mic. He had just finished high school. He wanted recording time and Jess knew Elijah, so we said okay. He paid for it, anyway. The studio time.” Harry was talking slowly and steadily, and Izzy couldn’t find a place to cut in. He sounded dark, depressed. This wasn’t the information she was interested in at all: it didn’t answer any of her burning questions, like, where did you go after you left me? Why haven’t you texted me back? “George got into trouble, fast, trying to live like he had in high school and even more than that, like a literal rock star, before the Jess Harper band had even recorded anything. He flew over his band—Jess anyway, before Olivia and Lisa joined—and borrowed so much to record the first album without a studio behind him that his fees on the tour were set up to pay his debts - he’s still paying on that debt. Lot of the money never even hit his bank account. I lent him money, to help out Jess and the band and the rest of it, and I doubt I see that money again. I found this out later, but he got his first contract by telling everyone that he knew me, that we were collaborating. Ryan bought it when he brought him on. Fake it to make it, yeah? It sort of worked. The entire tour, he was somehow spending what he didn’t have again. He wasn’t supposed to be on the plane, in the same hotels. They were scraping. His cards were getting declined toward the end.” It all made sense to Izzy, but it was still so painful for her to hear. This isn’t the truth she wanted. But it felt like something she already knew; as Harry recounted more details about his debt, Izzy remembered the comments from George’s friends at that gala at the Frick in New York. It all lined up perfectly with him going broke and his friends watching his ‘recovery’, or fake recovery. “Yeah, so it’s not because I’m jealous,” Harry concluded, “it’s because he’s an asshole. He’s a user. I know you don’t want my advice, and I might have no right to give you advice, but you shouldn’t try to contact him anymore or check in on him. Same with Lydia. I thought you should just have that information, whether or not you go any further with him.” Then, before she could say anything, Harry hung up. She scrambled to text him: we broke up that night, I’m not with George any more 

Then Izzy stopped herself. 

It felt like a no, what Harry said: whether or not you go any further with him. Like going further with George was a possibility. How could he think that? She sent the message anyway. Something she heard on TikTok popped into her mind: if he wanted to, he would. And what did Harry mean by “same with Lydia”? Again, criticizing her family. And they couldn’t even go 30 seconds without fighting! They were bickering right at the beginning of the call. And he had known Jess for far longer than she thought—almost 10 years? Izzy threw the phone against her wall, prompting Olivia to knock on her door.

“What was that? Did you open it yet?”

Izzy stood up slowly, shaking her head. Olivia walked over and picked up the envelope, reading the front with Izzy’s full name handwritten in beautiful script.

She opened the envelope, pulling out a two-page handwritten letter in cursive, with some smudges. Behind it, a stack of papers printed out on some type of old machine on thin, receipt-like paper. They read the letter from Mrs. Shepherd together:

“My dearest Elisabetta,

For your entire life, I have watched you and Lydia grow up - beautiful, free girls so very much like your grandmother. I have gone to join her and I hope you will be not too sad - I hope that when reading this you are well and thriving. This is what I want for you, to thrive, and it’s what your grandmother wanted for you to. It’s why she came here, to this country. Before she knew you, she wanted for you. She was always planning for you and thinking about you, even before you were born - even before your mother was born.

This is for you, Elisabetta. It is not for your mother: she is strong and can manage this all without what’s in this letter. I have given her something of her own to help her. This is not for the store. This is just for you and it is not for you to sell. It is for you to go see. You are more like your grandmother than you know.

The town your grandmother and I were born - it is a beautiful place, and at the time, very small, very close. She could not stay after her mistake and she was cast out, and I went with her. My best decision. I went back to visit often as you know, and your grandmother never returned. But her parents were not so bitter toward everyone. I saw them often. They kept something for me and now I give it to you, as it should have been given to you in the first place.

382 Contrada Magaro, Caltagirone, Sicily

I hope you go and find out who you really are.

All my love,

Maria Platania La Rosa Shepherd”

Izzy felt Mrs. Shepherd’s arms wrap around her, like they had when she was a little kid. 

She and Olivia looked at each other, Olivia putting her hands on Izzy’s shoulders in excitement. Izzy jangled the envelope: from inside, the sound of metal keys.

“Is it a… safety deposit box?” Olivia asked.

Izzy carefully took out the rest of the papers and turned the envelope upside down, emptying the rest of its contents into her hands: three keys, each the length of her fingers—all heavy, metal, and slightly rusted. Izzy smiled: grandparents she never knew, passing something down to a granddaughter they had never met. How beautiful. Her anger at Harry melted away. He and Jess and George weren’t her entire world. 

“I think it’s a house,” Izzy said. She heard Mrs. Shepherd’s words in her mind again: Go! Dance!

Izzy held up the keys. Another possibility of escape dangled in front of her. She could run away again, ditch the courses, ditch the new job, forget the tour, forget everything that happened. She imagined herself on a plane tomorrow morning instead of in the plant nursery, filling in her paperwork for health insurance. It was really tempting. She had the money, after all - the money from selling the clothes. That would at least get her over there. She thought about George: spending and running and spending and running. 

Izzy handed over the keys to Olivia, who was looking up the address in the letter on her phone. Izzy picked up her phone and sent yet another message to Lydia: If you need money to come home, or money to go to rehab, or to get established in your own apartment, I have it. I have no problem lending it to you. Or gifting it to you. You’ve given me so much.

As soon as she sent it, her phone rang again. Izzy put it to her ear right away.

“Harry?” Izzy asked hopefully.

Static on the other end. 

“Izzy, it’s Lydia.” Lydia’s voice sounded shaky. Izzy was ecstatic and concerned at the same time. 

“Thank you so much for calling me back,” Izzy said, “I can’t tell you how happy I am to hear your voice!” Izzy mouthed to Olivia: it’s Lydia! Olivia gave a tight smile, put the keys back in Izzy’s hand, and left the room. 

“Izzy,” Lydia said, steadying her voice. Izzy thought she heard a familiar voice in the background. “I have something to tell you.” 

chapter16

[forest-illusions]

[sans-guy]

[drowningbpdbodies]

If my mental disorders don’t kill me stress sure will

[u3pxx]

and as always, feel free to explain your answer in the tags or whatever

[thatfrenchacademic]

Got once again told that I was "good at making conversation" and had "people and communication skills"

and that is the biggest lie I ever heard

so a girl will end up writing some sort of "practical guide to making conversation, by a recovering agoraphobic".

But also. If you need a "how to people when no social skills" guide right now, my absolute no bullshit guide is The Shyness and Social Anxiety Workbook (2018, 3rd ed), esp chap 8 and 10. Includes: how long is appropriate to look at someone in the eyes? What are good conversation topics for your neighbors, your colleagues, your boss, your date? How to safely practice social skills/conversation? How to handle shaking/blushing/sweating/nervous stuttering? How is talking to a group different from talking to one person? How to gracefully end a conversation? How to ask for a change at your work schedule? How to start getting better at it *progressively* without being overwhelmed?

It's not a feel good self help/self improvement book, it is not a magic remedy with secret formula, it is more of a "let's learn a new language", with homework and notes to take. Give it a try, it is very easy to find it online