“I’ll call you when we move.”
The line clicks off as I’m walking down the same quiet hallway toward Dr. Pembrooke’s office.
The receptionist looks up with a soft smile. “She’s ready for you,” she says gently.
I nod, my chest tight as I step inside.
Dr. Pembrooke looks up from her desk, that same calm expression waiting for me.
“Welcome back, Nathan.”
I sit. A silence stretches between us, heavier than last time.
She studies my face, without a doubt seeing the tension, the shadows under my eyes.
“Where should we start today?” she asks.
I stare at the floor for a long moment before answering.
“I feel guilty any time I’m remotely happy.”
Her brows lift slightly. “Why’s that?”
“Because I feel like I don’t deserve to be,” I say quietly.
She nods slowly, letting the words linger in the air.
“Guilt has a way of convincing us that pain is a requirement,” she says. “What do you think would happen if you let yourself feel happy?”
“I’ll probably end up hurting someone again.”
“Again?” she asks.
I nod.
“I do an exercise where I have my patients who are experiencing trauma-based anxiety share a positive moment or memory in a session to re-train the psyche to start naturally introducing these thinking patterns over time. Could you do that for me? Could you share something like that with me?”
I nod; it takes me a moment, but I let myself drown in an old memory as I speak softly.
I idled at the curb in front of her house, headlights off, the low purr of my engine slicing through the quiet street like a warning. The dashboard lights painted my hands green as I thumbed out a text.
Me: I’m outside. Come out.
A minute passed. Then two.
Maddison: I can’t. My dad won’t let me.
I exhaled hard, slumping back against the seat. Her bedroom window glowed faintly, the curtain shifting just enough to tease hope. The car idled beneath me like a caged animal with nowhere to go.
Then—front door. Hinges creaking.
Out stepped her dad. Broad shoulders. Movements measured, deliberate—like a man who didn’t need volume to make a point. He didn’t yell. He just came straight down the driveway, stopping inches from my window.
I rolled it down halfway.
“Go on. Get,” he said, voice cool and clipped, the kind of quiet that left silent bruises you never paid attention to until pressed.
No argument. No scene. I just nodded, shifted into drive, and rolled away slowly. I turned the corner, parked beneath a drooping elm a few streets over. My pulse was still jackhammering, my grin already forming.
