“Have you gone to the Doc?” He asks, pointing at my hands as I shove them into my pockets.
“I am the doc.” I brush him off.
“Don’t do that, Black,” he warns. “You came tonight for a reason.”
“Just needed familiar company,” is my excuse, but Landon doesn’t buy it.
“You’re my most cagey one. You’ve been to forty-six meetings over the years and never told a single story.”
“I don’t have any to tell,” I say. It’s a delicate lie.
“You have more than anyone, Brighton.” He uses my full name, and it makes me think of Rhea. A smile creeps onto my face, and he clocks it. “What’s that?”
“What?” I shove it down.
“You smile less than you talk, so what’s that grin for?” He asks again.
“Just thinking of someone,” I admit, and it’s a simple enough lie that he’ll think I mean Daisy, maybe… “It’s nothing. Do you need any more help?”
“I could use some honesty. I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me,” he pushes.
The church feels so empty with just the two of us in it, but I lean against the column and cross my arms. “Nightmares are back,” I say tightly. “The usual shit to keep them locked up isn’t working, and it’s causing this.” I hold out my shaking hand. Landon stares at it and nods. I can never tell what he’s thinking, and I wish I could. It’s almost alwaysgood advice.
“It's trauma manifesting. You need real therapy,” he gives the one answer I don’t want.
“Figured you’d say that,” I huff, pushing off the column and moving toward the front door.
“You walk yourself in a circle long enough, Bright, you’ll start tripping over your own steps,” He says as I push out into the night air. I spend the walk home thinking about what he said, and it doesn’t matter how many times he’s offered therapy as a solution; I know it won’t work, so why bother?
How is a shrink on a couch going to walk me through something they’ve never experienced? Do they know what it feels like to feel constantly drenched in others' blood? Do they wake up soaked from sweat, reeling from the same nightmare over and over? How many deaths have they seen, dead bodies have they carried? Do they walk around with a soundtrack of kids crying for help?
No, I’m not going to be taught breathing exercises by someone whose nightmares consist of a barista using oat milk instead of two percent. Fuck that.
I unlock the apartment door and find Daisy at the island with Rhea. She never does her homework in the kitchen. It’s always in her room, behind locked doors with her music on full blast.
“Hi,” I choke out, removing my boots and hanging up my keys.
Rhea looks up from what she’s doing and gives me a small wave. My eyes snag on the bandage around her palm, and my brows furrow at the sight. Daisy starts to pack up her things, vacating the area the second I get home, as per usual, and I fill a glass of water for myself.
“What happened?” I ask, even though I shouldn’t.Not my business.
“Fistfight with a baking sheet,” she says, setting down her pen. She’s grading something, but I can’t really tell what.
“Who won?” I ask, reaching under the cabinet for the first aid kit.
“Baking sheet. The garlic bread was delicious, though.” She laughs softly. I put out my hand for hers, and she hesitates.
“Black Residence rule number sixteen: you let me perform first aid. I don’t need you getting an infection under my roof,” I tell her, and it seems to quell her nervous concern because she lays her hand in mine.
“There are rules?” she asks as I unwrap the messy bandage with a scowl. The burn isn’t minor; it spans across her soft hand and looks sore. “You never said anything about rules.”
"I'll make you a list." I toss the old bandage in the garbage and grab a clean cloth to clean the burn gently. She flinches from the warm water, but I hold her wrist with just enough pressure to keep her in place. When I’m finished, I wrap it again and let her have her hand back.
“Next time, hurt a different body part. I’m sick of staring at your hand,” I say before thinking, and then regret my word choices as a tiny smile forms on her face. “I didn’t mean it that way.” Pathetic—damage control, and we both know it.
Rhea tries to hide her amusement as she slides from the bench. She gives me a tiny thank you and retreats to her room, leaving me alone. And it’s not until she's gone that I realize that the room had been so quiet with her in it.
Aweek later, I’m sitting in the grass across from Judd, stretching out my calves, when Boone slumps down between us with a groan.
