“I just want to be happy to have a kid, you know? But I can’t. I feel like it’s wrong. Like somehow I’m betraying her if I laugh or have fun or take a picture of Atlas. I feel like it’s wrong that I’m alive and she’s not. I don’t want to feel any joy, but I do. And I know it’s wrong.”
“It’s not wrong, not at all,” Dusty assured him. “Time will allow you to let go of that feeling, I promise you. Right now, you have classic survivor’s guilt. I have a brief program to help you through that, if you want it. A couple books, a lecture I give that I’ll share with you.”
“I don’t…yeah, I guess.”
“I’m here for you,” Dusty said. “No charge, any time, day or night.”
Tessa felt something crack in her chest.
“And in the meantime,” he continued, “remember that grief and joy can live in the same heart. You don’t have to wait for the grief to be gone to start letting some joy back in. You have a newborn son and he’s amazing. You should let yourself feel the thrill—and absolute sleeplessness—of that.”
As Jonah chuckled, she turned to slip back up the steps—she’d heard too much, this was private—but her footstep betrayed her.
Inside, the voices stopped.
Then Jonah’s familiar snort floated through the door. “Whoever’s out there better be a spy with strawberry shortcake or else.”
Tessa laughed and came down the rest of the stairs, walking to Jonah’s open door.
“I swear I wasn’t eavesdropping,” she said, stepping inside.
The room was dimly lit by one standing lamp, casting a soft golden glow over the messy unmade bed where Jonah sat. A box of tissues, five of them used and balled up, balanced on Jonah’s pillow.
Dusty was in the chair, leaning back, looking remarkably comfortable.
Even with the evidence of tears, Jonah looked like a different man. His shoulders weren’t quite so high, his eyes not so shadowed. Whatever “therapy” had gone on down here, it had worked.
Dusty glanced at her, amused. “What? No shortcake?”
“We saved some,” she said. “I did not mean to interrupt.”
“We were just wrapping up,” Jonah said, pushing off the bed and stretching. “I should go check on Atlas anyway.”
“He’s conked out and being traded from loving arm to loving arm.”
Jonah smiled and looked at Dusty. “See?”
The other man shrugged. “All part of the process.”
She had no idea what they had talked about, but clearly the connection was strong.
Jonah reached out and clasped Dusty’s hand. “Thank you, man. For real. That… helped more than I thought it would.”
Dusty rose, too, pulling Jonah in for a quick guy-hug. “Anytime.”
Jonah turned to Tessa. “He’s better than a bourbon.” Then he grinned. “Okay, maybe not better. But close.”
With that, he ducked out and climbed the stairs, leaving them alone in the quiet room.
Tessa perched on the bed, arms crossed, eyes on Dusty. “So who stole the bad boy of the beach and replaced him with…a kind, sensitive, remarkably good therapist?”
He chuckled but then his smile faded. “Life did the dirty work, Tessa. But it’s nice of you to notice the improvements.”
“They’re kind of hard to miss, unless you break into a chorus of AC/DC—then I’ll know it’s you.”
He regarded her for a moment, looking just a tiny bit exhausted, which was understandable after an hour of grief counseling.
“So, have I done my due diligence yet?”
