“She does make excellent braised short ribs.”
“See? Silver lining.” Jay caps his flask. “Just maybe dial back the production value next time. Save the formal dinners for people who aren’t on the menu. And be careful... she isn’t like you.”
“I know she’s not like me,” I say quietly. “She won’t become what I became.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because she still throws up when she sees blood. Because she asks questions about whether killing is right instead of just doing it. Because she—” I stop, realizing what I’m about to say.
“Because she what?”
“Because she makes me want to be better than I am.”
The admission comes out before I can stop it, and Jay’s entire demeanor shifts. He sets down his flask and actually focuses on me with attention that makes me want to leave.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” he says softly. “Tell me about that.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Blue, you just admitted that someone makes you want to change. In three years of therapy, you’ve never said anything like that.”
“I’ve changed plenty. I retired, didn’t I?”
“You retired because you were tired of killing. That’s different from wanting to be better for someone specific.” Jay picks up his pen again. “What is it about Saylor that makes you feel this way?”
I stare at the motivational poster, wishing I were anywhere else. “I don’t know.”
“Try.”
“She trusts me.” The words come out reluctantly. “Not because she’s naive or stupid, but because she chooses to. Even after seeing what I’m capable of.”
“And that’s important to you.”
“No one has ever just accepted me before. Not the sanitized version or the useful version. But Saylor sees all of it and stays anyway.”
“How does that make you feel?”
I consider giving him some therapeutic non-answer, but something about the way Saylor looked at me last night makes me want to try honesty for once.
“Like maybe I’m not completely irredeemable,” I say finally.
“And now?”
“Now I think maybe I want to find out.”
Jay makes another note. “This is progress, Blue. Real progress.”
“It doesn’t feel like progress. It feels like weakness.”
“Caring about someone isn’t weakness.”
“It is when caring about them makes you vulnerable. When it makes you hesitate or second-guess or—” I stop, running my hands through my hair. “I’ve never cared about anyone the way I care about her. It’s terrifying.”
“Why terrifying?”
“Because I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to care about someone without destroying them.”
Jay sets down his pen and looks at me directly. “Tell me about your parents.”
