“I was drowning. I’m trying to swim now.”
“Good.” He nodded. “That’s the first step — deciding you want to live instead of just survive.”
I glanced at the clock on the wall behind him. The hour was up. I started to push myself out of the chair.
“Sit down.”
I looked at him. He hadn’t moved.
“I block two hours for first sessions. The first hour is for talking, or for sitting in that chair saying nothing — about half the men who come through here use it for the second one.” He nodded toward the chair. “The next hour is for figuring out what you actually need.”
I sat back down.
“What do you want out of this?”
I thought about it. “I don’t want to be the man I’ve been since Danny,” I said. “I don’t want to be the one who reached for a bottle. The one who closed a door on the only person who could have helped me.” I stopped. “The woman — I’m not ready to talk about her. Not today. I need to deal with everything else first. Then maybe I come back to her.”
Pete nodded once, slow. He didn’t write that down either.
“That’s the right call. Most men come in here wanting to fix everything at once. They end up fixing nothing. One thing at a time. We’ll come back to her when you’re ready.” He sat forward. “Then let’s talk about what that takes. What I do in this office matters, but it’s not enough on its own. You need other people doing different jobs in the work. One man can’t carry you out of this. Not me, not your president, not your VP, not anybody. It has to come from a few directions at once or it doesn’t hold.”
He held up a hand and ticked the points off on his fingers.
“One. This office. Twice a week to start — Tuesdays and Thursdays at two. We’ll re-evaluate in a month. The first six weeks are the worst. That’s when most men quit. I want eyes on you twice a week through that window.”
I nodded.
“Two. There’s a grief support group that meets at the community center on Maple Street, Tuesday evenings. A woman named Gillian runs it. She’s good. I want you in that room.”
“I can talk about Danny in here.”
“You can. You’re going to. I want you also saying his name in a room of people who didn’t know him. Strangers grieving their own dead. People with no investment in what it means for you. You need to hear what your grief sounds like out loud somewhere you can’t impress anyone and can’t disappoint anyone.”
My throat went tight. I nodded again.
“Three.” He set his hand down. “Tell me about the drinking.”
I’d been waiting for it the whole hour. “Almost every day since Danny died. Half a bottle of whiskey on a slow night. A whole bottle in the first few days.”
He didn’t react. Just absorbed it. “What do you want to do about it?”
I looked at the leather of the chair under my hands. Cracked along the seam, soft from years of men sitting in this exact spot doing this exact thing. I’d been turning the question over since the morning I’d walked to Bea’s door.
“I’m done,” I said. “Starting today. No more.” I’d thought it would feel like giving something up. It didn’t. It felt like shutting the door on someone I didn’t want to be anymore.
Pete didn’t congratulate me. Didn’t tell me it was the right call. Just watched me say it and let the words be what theywere. “Okay. What’s your plan when you crave it at two in the morning.”
“I don’t have one.”
“Then we’re going to make one before you leave this room. Who can you call at two AM who’ll pick up and not make it weird.”
I thought. “Colt. My VP. He’d pick up.”
“Does he know what the call is.”
“He’s been somewhere like this. Different shape, same room.”
“Good. Use him. Every time. Don’t try to ride it out alone.” He paused. “How long have you been trying to carry things by yourself, Holden?”
