“Hurry up and wait?”
“More like,” he said, sitting down on the bed beside me and looking at me with a smile. “Trust the process. I had a friend who went to therapy and talked to me about it. She’d been going for a while, and said it was getting worse...harder. Sometimes she left feeling worse than she did going into a session. Another friend asked her if the therapist was provoking her, taking advantage, or being an asshole.”
“Was he...or she?”
“No, from what she described, he wasn’t letting her avoid things. They were digging into things she’d never touchedbefore. Our mutual friend said the best thing she could do was stick with it, that she had reached a rough patch that most people who go into therapy experience. And so long as the therapist wasn’t taking advantage, then she needed to trust the process. An infected wound might need to be drained before it can begin to heal, and it hurts like hell, but we need to let it happen, so why would it be any different for emotionally infected wounds?”
“Is that what I’ve got? Not mental problems, but an infected hang nail in my brain?” I asked with a snort.
He stared and surprised me by stroking my head gently. In someone else’s hands, or hand in this case, it would have come off as a clumsy attempt at seduction, or a condescending touch. From him, though, it was gentle and soothing, not the least bit sexual, even though I felt my body perk up at the first touch of another human being in almost two weeks.
Two weeks. Huh, it had been two weeks, hadn’t it? That was a record for me because there was no dry spell. I hadn’t felt like hunting people down. And even when Logan tried to hit me up for a little private time, I’d turned him down. I’d done it with far less thought than when I’d turned Isaac down, and Logan hadn’t lingered in my mind like he had. So, other than the hugs Cade loved giving, this was the first time in a while someone had touched me, and I leaned into it like a stray dog begging for scraps.
“I saw what happened to you,” he said, his voice soft as he let his fingers drift through my hair. “It was like watching someone get possessed, not that I know what that looks like, but it’s what it made me think of.”
“I don’t think there’s a demon inside me,” I said with a laugh.
“I think that’s where all demons and ghosts come from,” he said in a sad voice. “We’re all haunted houses of our pasts. Some of us can do them up and make them look pretty, but we’re allhaunted, and we can never move out. But maybe there’s a chance to make that house our own. Maybe there’s a way to teach the ghosts songs that brighten the hallways, and make peace with the demons so we can exist side by side. But?—”
“What?” I asked softly because it wasn’t like him to hesitate. He’d only done that the first time he had spoken the direct truth to me, so I wondered if that’s what was happening now.
“I don’t know,” he whispered. “But it was like I was watching your heart shatter into a million pieces in front of me before you thought to hide your face from everyone.”
“Is it possible for something that’s already shattered to dust to be broken again?”
“Oh, Clay. Yes. The human capacity for suffering is like our capacity for love, hate, compassion, violence, and cruelty...infinite.”
“You should write a self-help book. You’re very encouraging, I can practically feel the sadness lifting right out of me.”
He didn’t take the bait. “What I saw earlier wasn’t sadness. It wasn’t depression. It was a sorrow and grief that I’ve never been forced to feel. I don’t know who or what you’re mourning, Clay, but I can see you are. And I’m so sorry it happened to you.”
I clenched my eyes shut. “Don’t be. It’s my own fault.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“I won’t argue, but know this. I don’t believe that for a minute.”
“Well, you should,” I said dully. “They’re dead because of me. I’m responsible. No one else. Me.”
His fingers spread, nails pushing my scalp but not digging in. I would have welcomed that, the feel of his nails scraping and scratching my skin, drawing blood with a burning line of pain that would have felt right. Instead, he drew his hands back and forth, leaning his head against my shoulder and pulling mecloser. I closed my eyes as our heads met, my cheek against the top of his head while he gently rubbed with his fingertips.
I waited and waited, feeling the pain flow through me in an endless whipping storm, waiting for him to ask what I meant, who I meant, and to explain my guilt. Yet as the minutes ticked by, he said nothing, and I realized all I could hear was our breathing, his light and smooth, mine harsh and shaky. His other hand was resting over mine on my knee, his fingers gently twined, and I found myself turning my hand to hold his, which he accepted immediately.
“I’m sorry,” I said softly, knowing I was helpless to what was happening. I was falling apart at the seams, and it was taking all my energy to keep it together, let alone explain myself.
“I’m not,” he said softly. I realized I was being pulled back onto the bed, and I was too weak, too distracted, to do anything but go with him, feeling the warmth of his body pushing against my back as he squeezed up against me. His hands never left me, holding me in the gentlest way that made my eyes sting with tears that threatened to spill, strangling the cry inside my chest even as I wanted to pull away, wanted to be free of the comfort he was offering. “Don’t listen to the voice that says you don’t deserve this, Clay, that you don’t need it. It’s okay...well, it’s not okay. You’re not okay, but it’s okay for you not to be okay. Not when it’s you and me here right now, okay?”
“That’s a lot of okay,” I said in a thick voice. “But I guess that’s okay.”
“Okay,” he said, and we both laughed a little, but he never let me go.
Whether I wanted him to let me go or hold on tighter, I didn’t know, but I did know he wasn’t going to be letting go anytime soon.
