“Fuck, yes,” I say.
“We do,” Leo agrees.
“And we know you love us,” I say, brushing Dean’s hair back. It’s greasy and uncombed, but I don’t care. He’s pouring with sweat, and it’s making my clothes damp. That’s not important, either. This moment has been a very long time coming, and he’s been dreading it with every fibre of his being.
I take a deep breath. “Dean…you loved me enough to body shield me when you thought someone was coming to kill us. Because you want me to be safe. Can you maybe try to love yourself as much as you love me?” He rests the bridge of his nose against the side of my face. “I know this is a really huge step we’re asking you to take, but I think it’s so much better and a lot more doable than carrying on as you are. And on the other side of it…this might be our best chance to be together. If that’s what you want. Is…I mean…” Now I’m the one trembling a little. “Be honest, and it’s OK either way: if you could wipe away all of your issues, would you be with me?”
He goes rigid, and then nods frantically, pulling me even harder to him, cradling my head next to his, close enough that I feel his tears on my face.
“Will you try this?” I know everyone is watching, and I don’t care. I cup his face and I kiss his lips, which taste salty and warm. “Will you?”
The room is so silent that a pin dropping would sound loud.
I will never forget the look he gives me. Devastation and terror mix with defeat and resignation. But when he nods, I see something that gives me hope.
I see his love.
Joe offeredto drive Dean back to the facility himself, but none of us felt right about just putting him in a stranger’s car and packing him off, so we decided that Eli would drive Dean and me there, following Joe.
We packed as much as we could for him, clothes, sketching pads, iPad and charger cable, everything. He didn’t participate, he just watched us with unseeing eyes, shivering at the prospect of Hazelwood Hills and everything he’d confront there. Even a Facetime call with his parents didn’t make a dent, no matter how much love and reassurance they poured through the screen.
The car journey was awful. Mostly silent, Dean and me in the back, with him alternating between clutching onto my arm, my hand, any part of me that was close to him, and letting them go, backing as far into the corner of the back passenger seat and hugging himself like he was struggling to hold all the pieces of himself together. I hate myself. I’ve never felt lower than I do right now, for putting him in this position, for doing this to him. What was I thinking? Why am I putting him through this? Can I not just accept and accommodate him as he is?
But it’s not just about me. He cannot go on like this. He just can’t.
It’s even worse when we walk him into the building. Hazelwood Hills is lovely: secluded, plenty of green space, anda large, sprawling white building on one storey. Inside it’s as welcoming as it can be, with a huge reception desk and big, squashy green couches. Joe is so kind, introducing Dean to the staff there as though they’re just people meeting at a social gathering rather than a patient meeting staff at a hospital. I watch helplessly as they sign him in, connect him to Wi-Fi, help him download a text to speech app on his tablet, and tell him the structure of the day and what they can offer him for entertainment while he’s not in therapy. They have a new squash court, they tell us brightly.
Dean is so numb that he barely responds when Eli and I hug him, hard, when it’s time for us to leave. The haunted, frightened look he gives me - not Eli, just me - will make it hard for me to sleep for the next three months. We both promise him that we’re only a text away, and then he’s being led through a door marked ‘staff and patients only’, to his room. Away from us. He freezes a few times, and I can see his legs are shaking. But he does it. He walks through.
Searching for a tissue, I reach into my coat pocket. There’s something in there, but it’s not a tissue. It’s crinkly and covered in crumbs. I pull it out.
It’s the cupcake case from when he remembered my birthday. The pink icing on my nose. The candy letters.HAPPY BIRTHDAY LIADEN.
I try. I try so, so hard. But the sobs won’t be smothered any longer, and while Eli drives us back, I clutch the cake case in my hands, bury my face in my knees, and cry my heart, my guilt, my agony out. It sounds loud, agonised, yet also far away from me.
“It’s OK,” Eli mumbles, his own eyes wet, as he places a comforting hand on my back. “It’s OK, Liaden. Let it all out.” And I do.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Dean’s therapy diary
Day1
I’ve been told to write down everything I’m feeling, and what I’m feeling is I want to go home. Right now. This was a mistake. I’ve got to get out of here.
Day3
Messaged Eli to ask him to come pick me up. Bastard said no. Right now I hate him. I can’t fucking stand this place. The questions they ask. That stupid piece of shit text-to-voice thing I have to use to be fucking understood. Eli’s always been there for me, and he’s just leaving me here. I begged. He gave me some bullcrap about how if I still feel that way at the end of the month, he’ll come, but not until then. I even told him he could rebook his wedding if he came for me now. Nada. Fucking betrayed. I HATE HIM.
Day4
I’ve kept to myself so far, leaving my room as little as possible. But today they managed to convince me to go for a walk around the grounds, coaxing me like a skittish new pet. There’s a lake, and rolling hills. It’s not a bad environment. I just wish I wasn’t here.
WhatsApp messages between Dean Gastright and Liaden O’Brien
Dean Gastright: Angel, please come get me
Dean Gastright: Get me out of here, please
