10
TUCKER
“WHAT ABOUTthe nightmares?”
She tilts her head to the side, like my answer is going to be the most interesting thing she’s heard all day. I’ve been seeing this head shrink since right after I almost lost my leg, even though I know she means well, her questions get on my nerves more than the fact they are making me see her.
She asks the same questions most of the time, sometimes in different ways. I tolerate the therapy only for the barest sliver that I could be reinstated someday. I know chances are slim, but if this has to be on my record for consideration, I’ll do it.
Once a month, on the same day I have physical therapy, it’s mandatory that I stop in and see the resident therapist to make sure I’m not a danger to myself or the rest of the world. The whole fucking thing is a waste of time, but saying that doesn’t get me out of seeing her. I know because I already tried.
The giant fluffy chair she sits in every time I’m here makes her look even smaller than she is. She reminds me of Gray’s wife, Elly. About five-foot tall, small body, and wild curly hair. Every time I’m here, she curls her feet up under her in the chair and rests her legal pad on her leg to take notes.
“Same.”
“Are you losing sleep?” Her voice is assertive and soft, not condescending, but kind.
Doesn’t mean I like her, it still pisses me off that I have to see her.
“Sometimes.”
It doesn’t matter how curt I am with her, she never loses her patience, and I’ve been unable to fluster her. I’ve tried. Just to see if I can shorten the visit. For such a small woman, she has nerves of steel and the composure of a saint. Especially if she deals with men like me every day.
The dark cloud cover and light mist outside the windows of her office make me think of the night we pulled over and helped the redhead on the side of the road. Nora. There’s no way I could forget her name now, not since Kinley went on and on about their breakfast this morning and how nice Nora is.
She said her name twenty-five times during the drive here.
I’ve always been close to my sister. Our mom died when I was seven and she was eight from an infection after childbirth. Our little sister, Breanna, was a surprise baby, and after four other pregnancies, our mom didn’t think twice about her symptoms during the week after she came home from the hospital.
According to my sister, Marley, she expected aches and pains and tiredness after childbirth. It was when she got a fever and started taking over-the-counter medicine for cramping that she questioned her symptoms.
By the time they realized something was wrong, it was too late, the infection had quickly moved to her organs. So, our oldest siblings, Gray, Mason, and Marley, were busy taking care of a newborn, our grieving father, and the ranch. Too young to be helpful, Kinley and I took care of each other. We’ve been close ever since.
Our interactions used to be easy and full of jokes and laughter, but since I’ve been back after being discharged, I’ve been anything but easy. So, when she rattles on about whatever crosses her mind, to fill the silence during our long drives to the Veterans Affairs Hospital in Tulsa, the guilt picks at the fucking scab of my life, making me feel even worse.
I didn’t even ask her to drive me, she happened to be at the ranch when I came home one day after PT and saw how much pain I was in. Since my injured leg is my right leg, she admonished me for not saying anything and insisted she be my driver.
Unlike my other siblings, who took no for an answer, Kinley told me to “shove my ego up my ass” and comes to the ranch every week to ride with me to my appointment and drive me back. She’s always been fucking stubborn and doesn’t accept the word ‘no’ very well.
Pausing to scribble something on her legal pad, the therapist doesn’t lift her head as she asks, “Anything new since I saw you last?”
A certain redhead, who has been an annoying niggle in my brain for the past two weeks, pops into my head, and I keep my face shuttered. Thoughts of her appear unbidden at odd times through the day, pissing me off for making me feel things I shouldn’t feel.
And because of her, I can’t go to my usual place to get away from everyone. My head and neck heat in frustration as I push her from my mind.
“No.”
“You hesitated.” She leans back in her chair, her pen hovering over her pad. Her soft brown eyes lock on mine like a shark smelling blood, and she tilts her head to the side again.
“No, I didn’t.”
Her lips twitch and press into a line, the smile she is suppressing reaches her eyes. She cocks a brow when she says, “Yes, you did. I would like to talk about it.”
The heat turns to anger, and the muscles across my shoulders tighten. This isn’t the first time she’s pushed back, she does it often. She may be small, but she definitely has a backbone.
There’s no fucking way I’m telling her that a woman I’ve seen twice keeps slipping into my thoughts. Both times, I acted like an asshole. It doesn’t matter how I acted, I have no business thinking about her, anyway. I don’t have anything to offer a woman, especially the type of safety a man is supposed to offer his woman.
“Idon’twant to talk about it.”
