I feel my cheeks warm. “Go on, McKenna,” I say quickly.
He licks his lips as he turns more serious.
“If you could have a conversation with your past self, what would you say?”
I certainly did not expect that one, but I honestly enjoy this approach. Perhaps this is the way he processes things, by taking thoughts from others, trying to make sense of something. I don’t mind it. If anything, I encourage it.
“Probably nothing he’d listen to.”A secret challenge to see what he makes of it.
Tom huffs a quiet laugh. “Why does everyone say that?”
“Because it’s a cliché. We all think we’d listen, but we never do.”
I can see his sharp mind working. It’s kind of amusing, watching the gears turn behind his magnetic sapphires.
“Alright, fine. Let’s say he would listen. What’s the one thing you’d want him to know?”
“That it’s okay to want something for himself.”
“And have you?”
My chest tightens. “Have I what?”
“Got something for yourself.”
A flood of nausea goes through my body before it settles deep in my stomach. That nausea feels unsettlingly pleasant in a way that makes me want to hold onto it, and keep it a little longer than I’m allowed to.
I’ve buried that feeling a long time ago, but I still recognize its impact. It’s dangerous. And it’s wrong. Because standing here in front of him, I feel that want.
Tom watches me, waiting for me to answer. The dark smudges of make-up under his eyes make him look raw, and for that, I see art in its purest form.
“I’m working on it,” I say eventually.
We stop near the pool where we’ll split ways. He parts his lips like he’s about to say something, but then just nods instead.
“Yeah, me too…” he murmurs, giving me one final look before turning and walking away.
Chapter ten
Tom
It’s past midnight and Arcadia has gone quiet. It’s just the wind, the crickets and the rustle of palm leaves behind me.
Two tiny lizards dart across the ledge of the terrace, quick and jittery. I follow them with my eyes, watching the way their little bodies flicker, chasing each other. They disappear behind a prickly cactus.
The smart thing to do is go to bed and sleep, but the scenes from today’s sit down with rookie are performing a danse macabre in my head.
It took everything I had to tell him about the silence. The nights where I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, suffocating under something I can’t even fucking identify.
But he didn’t look at me like I was mad. He listened.
And that was… refreshing. Because for years, white coats kept calling me unstable and blaming it all on the pills and the booze. After a while, I started to believe them. That I’d broken myself too many times, and my body reacting like this was the price.
The way Yosh spoke to me had felt like a bandage pressed over an open wound. I’ve never had someone make me feel like my fears weren’t something to be ashamed of.
And I get it, it's his job. He’s probably heard a hundred versions of my story. To him, I’m just another patient, another lost cause looking for answers.
But if that’s true, why did it feel so real?
