“That’s fucked up.” I don’t even feel bad for speaking so plainly. I never would have been so crass with other therapists.
“You’ll get no argument from me there, but they made it. They’re still making it. There’s never a point where you really just stop.”
“I don’t know if that’s depressing or inspiring.”
“Either way, you’re thinking about it, and that’s the important thing.”
“Is it?” It feels too easy, but maybe that’s where I’ve been going wrong all this time. The whole thing has got so bad that it’s to the point where I’ve started to believe that short of a miracle, nothing is going to fix me, and miracles aren’t made of small, logical steps. I’ve tried that.
Sort of.
I haven’t tried the one thing that Lockwood is suggesting. Just… do it. Get through it. Get through it the way I got through it in Maverick’s arms when he carried me to the truck. I’ve been trying to do this alone because I felt that I couldn’t ask anyone else to walk through the ugliness of this with me, and maybe that’s where I’ve been wrong as well. I’ve tried to heal the gaping wound by doing all the wrong things instead of giving myself the most painful treatment. I thought it would rip me wide open, but what if it’s the one thing that will stitch me back together.
“I’ve tried everything else,” I muse darkly. “What’s the worst that could happen? It hurts, it sucks, I pass out and I wakeup back inside and have to repeat the whole thing over until I know if it works or not?”
Lockwood doesn’t even try and give me platitudes. “Yes.”
Okay. Good to know.
I’m being sarcastic so I can survive even this first part of mentally gearing myself up to even thinking about doing something like that. It is good to know. At least, it might be. Lockwood’s right. Even if some of this is the same as what I’ve tried before, there are new variables and even one small change to an experiment might make all the difference.
I have Scythe and the club. Lark. Ella. The other women I haven’t even met yet. The men from Scythe’s club. AndMaverick.
There are a thousand thoughts that my brain wants to throw at me, but I don’t want any of them to show on my face while Lockwood is sitting right across from me. I should never have gotten so close to Maverick last night, but in the heat of the moment, it was like I didn’t even have a choice. I just… needed him. I needed to be close to him the way I haven’t been close with anyone since well before the night that changed my life. As soon as I climbed onto that scrap of couch and pressed my body against his, all the bullshit in my head just stopped for a moment and went entirely silent.
It was just him and me. His breathing and mine.
It was more than that and I know it, but I can’t think about the way my hormones went straight into disarray, or how a rogue wave of desire rose up and filled me, consuming me so that I could barely breathe. I wanted to touch him. I wanted tobetouched.
Maverick is beautiful. He’s sweet straight down to everything that makes him up, a white knight to the bone. I didn’t put space between us last night because I had my martyr complex going strong. I don’t want Maverick to be a reward. He’s a person, not a thing. He has a beautiful life in front of him. Even if he refuses to be chased away, that doesn’t mean he should have to sacrifice anything more. I don’t want to think that if I just get better, if I can take one step outside, or one breath, that I can have him.
I need to heal myself and that’s the end of it. It’s a process that I need to go through.
But maybe I do need to allow myself some grace.
Lockwood doesn’t say anything to bring me back. He just lets me sit here and think. I don’t feel as though we’re on some schedule that he has to rush me through to get to another client. Still. He probably has things he should be doing or could be doing, and other clients who matter and need his time. He doesn’t need to just sit here while I ruminate.
“Thank you so much for everything you’ve said. I should probably take some time to think it all over. I need to get used to the idea of asking for help and receiving it. I want to think about how to move forward, and how I should continue healing my wounds. I can’t promise that I’ll be ready to just try the cold shock theory within a few days, but I want to give that more thought too.”
Lockwood stands and I mirror him. He’s tall and wiry, which only serves to make his face seem more angular. “Of course. You don’t have to rush anything. This is your timeline. If you want to meet again, just let Scythe know.”
“I will.” We didn’t discuss billing, or his fee, which I’m now thinking about. “Will you email me the bill? I don’t know… that is… I’m not sure what my address will be.”
“You don’t have to worry about that. It’s taken care of.”
“Oh! No. I can’t let anyone else do that.”
“I have an agreement with the club. It’s not always monetary. You don’t have to worry about payment and don’t insist that you owe the club anything in return. They don’t expect it.”
He makes it pretty hard to argue, even though I want to. Addressing it with Lockwood probably won’t go anywhere, but I can ask Scythe later. If the club won’t take my money, maybe I can volunteer to help them with their legal stuff. Ella and Lark mentioned that the club’s lawyer had a baby not long ago, and she’s probably swamped.
“Okay.” It’s a reluctant agreement, but I stick my hand out anyway. “Thank you again.”
Lockwood shakes it. “Certainly. It was good to meet you and your cats.”
That earns a lighthearted laugh out of me at last. “They were happy to meet you too.”
Lockwood lets me walk him out, although he understands that I want to stand well back from the door, and opens it and closes it quickly. I watch him from the window, and he waves before he gets in his sleek, sporty black car and zips off amidst crackling, loud exhaust.
