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10
Shaye
“Post-traumatic stress disorder?”
I nod my head at Professor Gary. “That’s my opinion, based on what I’ve seen. But this…friend…he won’t let anyone help him.”
“Why do you think he’s so resistant to getting help?”
I shift in my chair. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking by coming in here. I obviously can’t tell Professor Gary the truth, that my boyfriend is a next-in-line mob boss who killed a guy in cold-blood and is haunted by the memory of me being abducted and held at gunpoint.
Yeah, I think I’ll reserve the full story with all the gory deets for now.
“I think he would see it as an admission of weakness, that he’s not strong enough to battle his demons on his own.”
“But you think talking to a professional would help.”
“Well,” I say, twisting my hands in my lap. “It might, if he’s open to it. If not, it’d be a big waste of time.”
“True, people get out of therapy what they put into it.”
“But, the thing is…he’s burdened with so much anger and anxiety that I’m afraid if he doesn’t get his mind in order soon, he might cause himself a lot more trouble…at his, um, job. He won’t talk to anyone, so he bottles up a lot. I’m afraid he’s going to snap one day, not thinking clearly about how his actions may impact the others he, um, works with.”
“Does the root cause of this PTSD have to do with his job?”
I nod again. “Yes.”
“And his employees, what kind of relationship do they have with your friend?”
“Uh, they’re pretty loyal, I’d say. He treats them well. Respects them.” For the most part, unless they make the stupid-ass decision to cross him.
“He’s a good manager, then?”
“Yes.” I’ve never seen a more loyal bunch of thugs.
“Is your friend’s job very high-pressure? Is he acting as a barrier, absorbing the stress from his superiors so that it doesn’t impact his subordinates?”
“You could say that.” Except in Carlo’s case.
“And is he suffering from substance abuse? Is there an immediate need to get him help against his wishes? Do you feel like he’s a threat to himself?”
“Definitely not. He rarely drinks, doesn’t use drugs. I think it’s because he’s afraid it will compromise his judgment, making him vulnerable. And since he already feels that way, he’ll avoid anything that can put him in a more, um, questionable position.”
Professor Gary leans forward into his hands. He’s quiet for a second as his eyes search my face for clues about what in the hell my friend does…or did…that could bring on PTSD since I have been more than evasive since I sank into this office chair half an hour ago. “Can I be frank right now, Shaye?”
“Please,” I whisper.
“I feel like you’re not giving me the whole story, which is fine. But if you really want to help your friend, you need to be more forthcoming about details. I don’t want to pry, but it’s a little bit hard to psychoanalyze someone who only seems to have a stressful job by your account. I suspect the traumatic situation has to do with much more than a bad day at the office, and if I’m going to recommend some different treatments for you to suggest, I need to be clear on the severity of the situation. And right now, I’m just not.”
I let out a sigh. This was a stupid idea. “I know, and I’m sorry that I can’t share more insight with you. It’s just that…” Just that my boyfriend has pretty major criminal dealings and an assortment of guns, prostitutes, a raunchy sex club that caters to the elite, and drug dealers in his back pocket. “I’d hoped that maybe there was some general advice you could give me, under these, um, delicate circumstances.”
Professor Gary rises from his chair and grabs his tweed jacket, shrugging his arms into it. “It’s very subjective, Shaye. Not every patient displays the same symptoms, and every case is unique. It takes a lot of time to properly evaluate a person’s mental and emotional health to determine the proper treatment path to take.”
I collapse against the back of my chair. “I figured you’d say that.”
He comes around and sits on the edge of his wooden desk. “You’re a smart girl. You’ll figure out how to help your friend.”
His knees almost touch mine…something tells me that it’s on purpose…and the realization forces me to jump out of the chair. I swallow hard and grab my jacket, looking in every direction except his. Did I come here to help Nico? Or did I come to get a taste of normalcy, to have a real…well, almost real…conversation with a man? A man who is open and transparent and self-aware, a man who is unencumbered by death threats, night terrors, and chaotic sex dens, a man who has a simple job and a simple life and simple needs.
