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“On it, brother.” Jax left me, on his phone, and my mother grabbed Dad’s hand. She mentioned going back to the hospital, but when I attempted to go after her, Dad snapped his fingers in my direction.
“You stay,” he said, then directed a cop over to me. “Make sure he gets back to his friends.”
What?
“Dad.” I came over to him. “I need to be out there. The guys and I can—”
“No,” he challenged, and when a cop touched me from behind, I pushed the fucker off.
“Dad. Please.” He couldn’t keep me here. I needed to look, look for her. “You have to let me go. I have to look for her.”
“You’ve done enough,” he volleyed, and in that moment, my father shot me an irregular look. It was one completely foreign to him. He was always so patient with me. Even when he had no reason or right to be. He always was.
But not today.
Today, and in this moment, it felt like we lost something, the pair of us, and covering his phone, Dad wet his lips.
“Go,” he said, just one word before he was getting back to things. The cop didn’t have to escort me out after that.
I went by myself.
24 hours since the news broke…
2 days since the news broke…
1 week since the news broke…
The present.
Chapter Five
Dorian
“How are you doing today, Dorian?” Dr. Singh asked me, her head tilted. She’d barely looked up from her notepad today, which meant nothing good for me. “Are your nights getting any easier?”
Meaning was I sleeping.
Since the answer was no, I shook my head, and her head went down again. Some days I wondered if all the epically fucked-up shit I gave her on the regular could be made into a volume of encyclopedias, a manifesto of a fucked-up youth…
At least, that was what I’d call it.
I’d been seeing Dr. Singh off and on since my grandparents died when I was a kid. My parents had signed both Charlie and me up, and I’d kept going mostly for Charlie. He hadn’t wanted to go but seeing me had kept him going so I had.
I had to admit, over the years it’d been nice, the check-ins. Dr. Singh had been there for all the milestones. The first time I’d tried weed, then later, the harder stuff when I’d been a fucking idiot enough to try it. That phase hadn’t lasted long, but she’d been there for it.
She’d been there for the parties and even the conquests. I’d bragged to her when I’d lost my virginity.
Like a fucking tool.
We had this doctor-fucked-up-client privilege thing so I knew she wouldn’t tell my parents about any of the things I told her, and Dr. Singh had actually been a bit of a release. I could unload all my shit, then go about my business. I could live my life doing all the fucked-up things I wanted to do, and ironically enough, despite telling her all my shit, she really didn’t know shit.
At least where it mattered.
I’d kept all the personal stuff close to the cuff over the years and hadn’t even seen her since Charlie had died. I hadn’t needed anyone poking and prodding into my life.
Not that I had a choice now.
Dr. Singh continued to scribble on her notepad, her salt-and-pepper braid over her shoulder. We spent a lot of time like this, her writing, me sitting. She often tried to offer advice I never took, nor did I allude I would. Never stopped her from trying to, though, and I knew me being here made my parents happy. They saw therapists themselves, thought it was healthy.
