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We spent almost three hours together. Since it was a Saturday, and his office was closed, he didn’t have to worry about other patients. He asked me about the “accident” and the details Icouldtalk about. He asked me about the nightmares, moving, bullying, fighting, and of course, about Damian and Asher. I wasmorethan willing to divulge information about them. I didn’t care.
He told me the rage, the mood and behavior changes, and the impulse control issues were all symptoms of PTSD. Within that three-hour period, he also gave me some kind of questionnaire that helped confirm the diagnosis. As expected, my options for treatment were meds and therapy. The one he specialized in was Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, and he said he’d had a lot of success with it.
Instead of forcing my hand on the med issue, we’d discussed what I wanted. Changing the way my brain worked while in such a difficult school and situation wasn’t the best of ideas. I couldn’t afford to be exhausted or foggy. So, he prescribed something to help the anxiety attacks when they came on, and he scheduled me out for six weeks, twice a week for therapy. We’d try it for now without daily medication, but if I saw no relief after six to eight weeks, he wanted me to try something, even just a low dose.
It was a lot, but he said it would help me get a handle on how to focus my anxiety and rage. The sexual part, he wasn’t so sure on.
“Twenty or thirty years ago, I’m sure you would have been told you’re abnormal, and your actions are mental illness. However, in today’s age, things are changing. Young people are evolving, relationships are evolving, and you may be one of those who have evolved with it. You’re at an age where you will be discovering who you are in many aspects. What you’d like to do for a career. New interests. New hobbies. You might even notice yourself dressing differently. One thing you may also notice is that you come into your sexuality more. You’re eighteen. This isn’t abnormal. While I realize this type sexual behavior is ‘abnormal’ for you—the interest in and even giving in to temptation with the three young men—I also wouldn’t consider this ‘dangerous’ or ‘risky’ sexual behaviors.”
I snorted. “Well, it seems pretty off to me. You’re a psychologist. I figured you’d have all kinds of shit to say about it.”
He shrugged. “Various mental illnesses have varying degrees of risky sexual behavior. When we say risky sexual behavior, we mean anonymous partners, no protection, taking multiple strangers home, ignoring obvious red flags and putting yourself in danger just to get that emotional high.Thatis risky. Your behavior seems to be rather focused on those three boys. From what you’ve told me, it doesn’t extend past them. While itcouldbe the PTSD, you could also fall into a polyamorous category. That term and its consideration varies among mental health providers. I, however, believe it’s real lifestyle choice for some people, and it’s healthy for them. So, I think this requires a bit more discussion instead of a ruling over a single visit.”
“Polyamorous,” I clarified. “Meaning I want all three and have no interest in choosing.”
He nodded. “It’s becoming more normalized all the time. Some people recognize they are fully capable of loving and holding equal sexual attraction to more than one person at a time, and it’s perfectly healthy for them. That’s why I’m not so quick to tell you that your actions are dangerous. However, I won’t tell you theyaren’trelated to the PTSD, either. The truth is, you’ve been through a lot, and there have beenmanychanges all at once. We need to see how you settle in over the next couple of months to make a better judgment.
“Iwilltell you to pay attention. If you notice you want sex with multiple partners with no care or plans to use protection, or you start finding interest in multiple other men and/or women, then we need to discuss this further. Atthatpoint, we need to think about dangerous behavior. But for right now, keep an eye on it. Note any changes. If you continuously stick with those three young men, I really don’t think you have a ‘problem’ as much as you have an identity crisis. One where you’re learning something about yourself your brain won’t accept.”
I’d spent the whole weekend thinking over what he’d said. I’d seen lots of hot guys, but none of them struck my fancy outside of those three—well, and Javier. I really liked Javier, too. I probably should have mentioned him since he was in his early thirties. That seemed “risky,” though, I suppose that could also just be me looking for something to justify why I should stay away from them.
But if it wasn’t them…
Would it be others?
If I hadn’t come to Crestview, would I still have gone down that road? If not, was it because they’d opened my eyes to something I never knew I wanted? Or had I lost my mind in that attack and was searching for comfort?
When I arrived at my door, my mind was still on therapy, my need for it, and why the hell I was attracted to two assholes in the first place. However, my mind was quickly pulled to the present when I found a bright orange sticker stuck to my door. I pulled it off and looked it over.
It had big, bold letters telling me to come to the main office. Under that was a series of boxes, and one was checked next to “Certified Package.”
I wondered what the hell could have been sent to me, but then my eyes widened as a cold chill raced through me, and a wave of nausea quickly followed.
“No,” I said softly.
My hand fell to my side as I sighed heavily and made my way back to the elevator. I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to see what was left for me because I already knew what it was. It was the insurance money. It was supposed to come any day, and I knew that had to be it.
When I walked into the office, the receptionist smiled at me. “How are you feeling? We heard you got a nasty bump on the head from your doctor. Are you feeling better?”
I nodded and forced a smile. “I am. Still have a headache, but he said I should feel better in a few days.” She nodded and looked at me like she expected me to continue, so I did. “Um, this was stuck to my door.”
I handed her the orange tag, and she took it. “Oh, yes! We have something for you. Just a moment.”
She went to another room and soon returned with a large, certified mailer. Since I was a student, they were able to sign for me from the carrier, but I’d have to sign for it now. She pointed out where I needed to sign, and I forced another smile.
“Thank you. Have a great day,” I said.
She smiled and tilted her head. “Thank you! You, too, Miss Wilder. Feel better soon!”
I nodded and turned to walk out of the office. I ripped the tab off the cardboard mailer and dropped it in the trash in the hallway. I reached inside, and sure enough, there was an envelope with my father’s estate attorney’s logo on it.
I sighed again, swallowing back the stomach acid that wanted to rise at the thought of holding so much money given to me because of the brutal murder of my parents. I opened the envelope. The paper sliced into my finger as I slid it through, and I quickly yanked my hand back with a hiss. Of course, I’d get a papercut.
Thanks to Detective Abbott, I’d known earlier how much the policies were for, so thiscouldn’thave been right. “What the hell?” I asked to no one.
There weretwochecks inside. One for the already known amount of $1,000,000—from the combined amount of two $500,000 policies—which Detective Abbott had told me about, and one more.
I stared with wide eyes at the fattest, boldest “5”I’d ever seen in my life. A five that was quickly followed by equally fat, equally bold zeroes…Sixof them.
