I smiled to myself. Maybe a vacation from life wasn’t so bad. Maybe it was just what I needed.
CHAPTER 11
Holden
“You’ve beena little antsy this session,” Dr. Levy observed at my therapy appointment, not that it was hard to see, with me fidgeting nervously on her tiny couch in her room full of light, soothing colors that did nothing to settle my nerves.
She was a woman of about sixty-five, with silvering hair worn in a single long braid. She dressed in peasant tops and flowing skirts and big chunky jewelry. Her horn-rimmed glasses hung from a chain around her neck, and she lifted them up only when she needed to read her notes.
I’d started seeing Dr. Levy at age ten, so she knew the long, mostly failed journey of my recovery. The ups and the downs and, embarrassingly, the avoidance I’d been engaged in since my foster mom died.
There was no shortage of baggage in my brain.
“It must be hard having someone in your space,” Dr. Levy said. “How are you handling that?”
“Okay. I invited Shiloh into my house. Into my room too. So it’s all good.”
I kept my tone casual, but my knee jiggled, giving away my anxiety.
“So, what prompted you to schedule this appointment? We weren’t due to see each other for a few more days.”
I came here to talk about Shiloh, but fear locked the words in my throat. What if I didn’t get the answers I wanted? Or even scarier, what if Idid?
Dr. Levy was used to my reticence and gave me time to pry the words free. After twenty years of on-and-off therapy, I should be better at opening up. It made me feel vulnerable, like I was painting a target on my back and asking someone to take aim.
But it was more than that. This particular question scared the hell out of me. I didn’t think I’d ever ask it, but now I couldn’t stop wondering.
I licked my dry lips. “Do you think it’s possible for me to have intimacy?”
“Well, sure.”
Hope fluttered. “Really?”
“Intimacy takes many forms, Holden. It requires trust and honesty, but yes, you can share emotional intimacy with someone if you’re ready for it.”
“What about physical?”
“It’s possible, yes. It isn’t easy or fast. I’ve seen patients make remarkable progress.” She raised an eyebrow. “Have you been keeping up with your exposure therapy?”
I grimaced. “A little.”
“The more you avoid touch, the more power it holds over you. You have to listen to your body and trust your boundaries, of course. But if you truly want to overcome this, you have to do the work. We can discuss other therapy options?—”
“No,” I said.
I’d been down that road before. It felt as if I’d tried every form of therapy, but gradual exposure to build tolerance had always made the most sense for me. When I was much younger, more open to change, it had been easier. I’d hugged my foster mom with ease, even kissed her cheek. But after she died and our family went into a tailspin of conflict, I’d withdrawn into myself and regressed.
“I’m working on it with my brothers. I’ll keep working on it.”
“All right,” she said. “We’ll stay the course, then.”
“But how much progress can I really make? I mean, a pat on the arm or a hug is one thing. But sex?”
“Sex?” she said, surprised.
“Not with my brothers,” I said quickly.
She laughed. “Well, I’d think not.”
