“You’re not broken, Ash.” I brush my thumb over the back of his neck. “But I think you might have anxiety.”
He pulls back slightly, giving a bitter little laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. “My dad used to say anxiety was just an excuse for weak people who couldn’t handle real life.”
The words sit heavy in the air.
Something ugly twists in my chest. I picture a younger version of Ashton—quiet, sensitive, overwhelmed—and someone telling him his feelings didn’t matter. That they made him weak.
No wonder he fights himself so hard.
“That’s bullshit,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t argue. Just stares down at the floor.
“I think you should talk to someone,” I add carefully. “A therapist.”
His head snaps up. “No.”
“Ash—”
“I can’t do that.” His voice sharpens with panic. “People would find out. My dad would—”
“He doesn’t have to know.”
He shakes his head hard. “No.”
I study him for a moment, then let out a small sigh. “I went to therapy.”
That gets his attention.
His brows draw together. “What?”
“I was in a really dark place,” I admit. “During the divorce.”
He blinks down at me, his features softening. “Oh.”
“The betrayal I felt…” I rub the back of my neck. “It messed me up more than I like to admit. I was miserable for a long time. Thought my life had no meaning without my marriage.”
The memory makes my chest feel tight even now.
Ashton’s eyes soften, his hand squeezing mine.
“But therapy helped,” I continue. “A lot, actually. It didn’t fix everything overnight, but it gave me skills to cope. Helped me climb out of that hole.”
I reach up and cup the side of his face.
“Seeking help doesn’t mean you’re broken,” I tell him gently. “It means you’re strong enough to go looking for the tools you need.”
Ashton goes quiet.
His teeth catch his bottom lip, worrying it as he stares somewhere past my shoulder. I can practically see the gears turning in his head—the hesitation, the fear, his thoughts raging against his instincts.
Finally he mutters, “I’ll… think about it.”
I know it’s the most commitment I’m going to get from him right now.
“Alright.”
We sit there for another moment, the brewery humming around us, the air still warm with the smell of malt and spice.
